Stolen Melodies

The scent of disinfectant still lingered in my nostrils. I dragged my suitcase, standing below the apartment building, eyes fixed on the window of the thirteenth floor. Three years ago when I left, the curtains here were always drawn halfway, waiting for the latecomer to leave a light on. Now the entire window is cloaked in dust, like an abandoned old photograph. The phone screen glowed briefly; the entertainment headlines pierced my eyes with pain. A photo of Sean Lowell with Rosalind Yip took up most of the page, beneath the headline "A Match Made in Heaven: Sean Lowell Confesses Romance with Rosalind Yip, Calls Her His Only Muse." The words "only muse" pierced my temples like poisoned needles. I took a deep breath and pushed open the glass door of the apartment building. As the elevator rose, the mirror reflected a stranger's face—mine, with a faint scar on my right cheek, a souvenir left by vocal cord surgery. The rusty scraping sound of the key turning in the lock was painfully harsh. The living room was empty, save for my piano draped in a white cloth, like a silent corpse. On the piano bench lay a musical score—the manuscript of Star Trail, the hit song I had penned for Sean Lowell years ago. Just as my fingertips brushed the page, the doorbell rang. The moment I glimpsed Rosalind Yip through the peephole, I thought I was hearing things. She wore Sean Lowell's favorite apricot dress, twirling a pen in her hand, followed by two cameramen lugging cameras. "Ms. Lawrence, I've long admired you." She slipped in sideways, her high heels clicking sharply on the floor. "Sean said you'd be back today and asked me to bring you something." She pulled a photo frame from her bag; inside was a copy of the Star Trail manuscript, boldly signed with Sean Lowell's name. "I heard you wrote this?" Rosalind Yip tapped the paper with a finger lacquered in crimson red nail polish. "What a pity—now everyone only recognizes Sean Lowell's version. After all, the audience always remembers the one who sings." A flush of blood suddenly surged to my head. I snatched the photo frame harshly; the manuscript quivered in the palm of my hand. Those notes painstakingly crafted through sleepless nights, those revision marks Sean Lowell crumpled then smoothed out—all of it had become a cruel joke in this moment. "Give it back to me!" "Ms. Lawrence, is this really necessary?" Rosalind Yip let out a derisive laugh. "Sean said your vocal cords are damaged, that you can never sing again, and even speaking is a struggle, right? Well, behind-the-scenes people don't deserve to stand with us in the spotlight." The sound of tearing paper echoed through the empty living room. I threw the torn paper in her face; Rosalind screamed and lunged at me, her nails aimed straight for my scar. I sidestepped and caught her wrist with strength built from three years of rehabilitation, rendering her immobile. "You dare hit me?!" Her voice was as sharp as nails scraping glass.