The club was full tonight—low murmur of conversations, clink of glasses, the occasional laugh rising above the hum. Dim lighting painted everything in warm shadows. Velvet curtains. Leather booths. Smoke that curled like living things toward the pressed-tin ceiling.

The kind of place where people came to forget.

A group of six men and two women pushed through the entrance, shaking rain from expensive coats and scanning the crowded room.

Then the music started.

A single guitar. A single voice.

The entire room seemed to quiet.

The voice was rich. Warm. Familiar in a way that made the hairs on the back of Theo's neck stand up.

She sang like she'd been doing it her whole life. Like the music was the only thing that mattered.

Lorenzo had stopped walking.

Then Draco.

Then Blaise.

And suddenly—

They weren't looking at a stranger.

Pansy's hand flew to her mouth.

Blaise Zabini's drink slipped from his fingers. The glass shattered against the floor. He didn't notice.

Mattheo didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

Didn't blink.

His eyes locked on the woman beneath the spotlight. On the familiar curve of her fingers. On the way she swayed slightly when she hit the high notes. On the small smile that flickered at the corner of her mouth.

Five years.

Five years since he'd seen that face. Five years since he'd heard her voice without the filter of memory.

Five years since he'd held her and let her go because loving her meant wanting her to be whole—even if that meant being whole without him.

And there she was.

Completely unaware.

Still singing.

Still beautiful.

Still her.