The first note wasn't a sound; it was a feeling. A deep, resonant ache that seemed to vibrate the very air in the room. It was the sound of a man talking to himself in a language of ivory and wood. As the melody unfolded—spare, haunting, and utterly alone—Elias realized he wasn't just listening to a song. He was standing in that cold church, years ago, witnessing the exact moment someone chose to disappear.

The woman froze. She slowly closed her book—a worn copy of a forgotten jazz biography—and looked at him over her spectacles. "That’s a deep cut. Most people don’t even remember the label that produced it, let alone the man."

"A Solas Charles," Elias said, the words feeling heavy in his mouth.

He remembered the woman's words. Some things only exist in the dark.