Prologue - the last encore

Theo’s POV – Four Months Before his Canals retreat

The lights were blistering.

The kind that burned halos into your vision long after the music stopped. The kind that made it impossible to see the people, only the movement, hands in the air, heads swaying, bodies humming like a single live wire.

Theo stood at center stage, violin tucked under his chin like a weapon drawn in surrender.

The final chord still vibrated in his chest.

The crowd erupted. Roared. Pleaded for more.

He let the bow hang loosely in his hand.

Behind him, Tess tossed her mic toward the drum kit like it had offended her. Jules kicked over a monitor. Rafe stormed offstage without a word.

The moment wasn’t victory.

It was fallout from an explosion among bandmates.

Theo stepped back from the edge of the stage, blinking past the lights, the heat, the static rising in his ears. He could still feel the crowd’s pulse as if it were his own, but the electricity no longer reached his heart.

Backstage

Brilliant,” Ezra muttered, shoving a phone into Theo’s hand. “Twenty million views already. They’re calling it a ‘violent symphony of raw catharsis.’”

Theo glanced down at the screen. A video clip: him, mid-solo, eyes closed, his shirt sweat-plastered to his back, dragging the bow across the strings as if it owed him money.

He didn’t recognize himself.

“Congrats,” Ezra said, clapping him on the shoulder. “That performance will live forever.”

“That’s the problem.”

Ezra blinked. “What?”

Theo handed back the phone and walked toward the exit.

“The moment’s over, but it’s still echoing,” he said. “I need somewhere it can die.”

Out the Door

He passed the green room, still heavy with tension. Tessa sat with her head in her hands, mascara smudged, knees bouncing. Micah threw a bottle across the room.

Rafe cursed. A chair slammed.
Theo didn’t stop.

He moved through the hallway, down the ramp, past the crew, the buses, the fans with posters and Sharpies. He brushed these aside.

He kept walking.

Past the sound.

Past the light.

Past the noise of who he was supposed to be.

Until the only sound left was the wind, and the only light was moonlight, and the only direction that made sense was anywhere without an audience.

Chapter One

The canal held its breath that evening, the surface dark as ink with only the faintest shiver where a moorhen disturbed the reeds. Lights along the towpath had not yet flicked on, leaving the water to borrow what it could from the last of the day. Ivy stood on the roof of the narrowboat with her arms folded, staring at the line of orange smudged low over the horizon. The color made her think of a fire that had burned too long, stubborn but fading.

She should have been grateful. The boat was hers now, a legacy written not in paper or wills but in the kind of trust her father had always carried quietly. When he passed, he left her this vessel paint scuffed, lines frayed, the diesel engine prone to sulking, but also the unspoken challenge: live in it, or let it sink with his memory.

The cabin door creaked behind her when she pushed it. Inside, the air smelled of smoke and damp wood, with a faint trace of engine oil underneath. Her father’s scent still clings in corners. Ivy placed her hand on the back of the galley chair, steadying herself. You wanted this, she reminded herself. You said you would take it on. But the thought landed heavier than the words could hold. It could never be the same without him.

She flicked the switch for the lamp, its glow catching the brass trim that had gone dull from years without polish. Dust motes spun lazily in the beam. She ran her hand over the scratched table, ringed from mugs, but solid. A memory came unbidden: her father sketching routes on a folded map, telling her that canals had their own language, one you learned through patience and mistakes. She had laughed then, a girl impatient to leave the quiet, dreaming of something louder. Now the silence seemed to press in from all sides, waiting for her answer.

A kettle sat on the stove; its enamel chipped but loyal. She filled it and set it to brighten the cabin with its propane flames, listening to the first groan of water against iron. The ritual gave her hands something to do. Through the porthole, the last of the light drained from the sky, leaving only the outline of the hedge and the tree, softened into the dusk.

She told herself she wasn’t lonely, just adjusting. Yet when the kettle began its low rumble, she found herself speaking aloud: “You left me the boat, Dad, but not the instructions.” Her voice startled her. It sounded small, raw in the confined space. In some ways, its loneliness scared her more than anything else.

The kettle whistled, and she poured the water, the steam rising like a veil. She sat with the mug between her palms and stared at the opposite bench, half expecting him to be there, cap pushed back, that half‑smile he wore when he was letting her think she was winning an argument. The bench stayed empty, the canal outside breathing its slow rhythm.

When she blew on the tea, her hands steadied. The boat swayed gently with some unseen current. She decided then, without ceremony, that she would stay. Learn the language and traditions her father had promised, even if she had to argue with the water until it answered.

Outside, a violin carried faintly on the evening air. Just a scrap of tune low, yearning, half‑lost in the distance. She froze, listening. The sound wove through the dusk like a thread, tugging her in a direction she could not yet name. For the first time that day, her chest eased.

Tomorrow, she thought, setting the mug down with care. Tomorrow I’ll find out where that music comes from.

The canal shifted against the hull in reply, and Ivy let herself believe it was an agreement.