Love,Written In Ruins-Chapter 35: I Want To Sing

The front door opened with the familiar creak that always sounded louder than it needed to, announcing their presence with unnecessary fanfare. Eloise burst inside first, shoes half off, backpack swinging wildly from one shoulder like a pendulum of chaotic energy.

​"We’re home!" she announced loudly, as if the house might not realize it otherwise.

​Drake snorted, efficiently kicking off his own sneakers. "It knows, Lise. The roof didn’t fall down."

He was the only one who ever called her that—Lise instead of Eloise. Not their father. Not their teachers. Just Drake. It had started when she was too young to say her own name properly, and he’d never let it go. Somehow, hearing it from anyone else would’ve felt wrong. From him, it felt like home.

Martha Winters was already there, like she always was—waiting.

She stood in the hallway in a soft cardigan and house slippers, the scent of dinner clinging to her like a promise of comfort. Her dark eyes lit up instantly, and she crossed the space in three quick steps, moving past the small clutter of discarded jackets. She kissed Bryce on the cheek first, a brief, familiar press of affection, then Drake, who bent slightly to make it easier for her despite his exaggerated teenage tolerance for public displays.

​"You’re late," she said fondly, though there was no heat in the gentle accusation.

​"Traffic on the road," Bryce replied, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it over the banister. "Someone forgot how to use a blinker."

​Martha exhaled, a sound of gentle, domestic relief, and kissed Eloise’s forehead. "How was school, my little swan?"

​Eloise grinned, instantly launching into the main event. "Someone tried to steal my necklace."

​Martha froze—just for a fraction of a second, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it tightening around her mouth that betrayed a flash of genuine, unexpected alarm.

​Then Bryce laughed easily, waving a dismissive hand. "Handled. Drake protected the family honor."

​Drake puffed up again, adjusting his collar. "I warned him. He won’t try that again, Mom."

​Martha exhaled, the tension instantly easing, replaced by a smooth smile. She ran her fingers through the little girl’s dark-brown hair, smoothing it affectionately. "Good. Now go do your homework. Dinner will be ready in exactly thirty minutes."

​She took Eloise’s backpack without asking, already moving toward the kitchen. The house smelled like garlic and tomatoes and something warm baking in the oven. Home. The word hung in the air, solid and unquestionable.

​Drake claimed the dining table with his books, muttering under his breath as he worked through complicated algebra problems, pencil tapping, erasing, tapping again—a typical, contained study ritual.

Eloise, however, needed motion. She drifted into the living room, ballet slippers in hand, pushing the corner of the rug back with her feet until she had a sufficient space—her space.

​She lifted her arms.

​First position.

​Second.

​She practiced the way her ballet teacher had shown her, small feet turning out, movements careful but filled with determination. She counted softly under her breath, tongue peeking out between her teeth as she tried to remember the precise sequence of steps: plié, relevé, tendu, plié.

​Then she launched herself into a spin across the floor, arms lifted clumsily but confidently, toes pointed as best as eight-year-old feet could manage. She practiced pliés and turns she half-remembered from class, occasionally glancing at her reflection in the dark television screen to check her form.

​Drake glanced up briefly from his table across the hall, annoyance mixing with fond tolerance. "You’re gonna knock something over, Lise. Stop spinning."

​"I will not," Eloise said, executing a final, wobbly spin that ended with her bumping lightly into the arm of the plush couch.

​Drake smirked, immediately victorious. "Told you."

​From the kitchen came the cheerful clatter of pans, Martha humming absently—a typical evening symphony.

​Bryce laughed from the doorway as he loosened his tie, draping it over the back of a chair. "Careful, prima ballerina. We don’t want a concussion before dinner."

​"I am careful," she insisted, immediately attempting another, even more ambitious turn.

​Bryce reached for the remote and flicked on the large television, settling in the armchair. He flipped through channels quickly—a blur of headlines, basketball highlights, and soap opera melodrama—before settling briefly on the news, then sports, then something loud and uninteresting. He sank deep into the armchair, watching her movements with quiet, focused pride.

​Eloise spun again, trying for perfection.

​Then—

​The sound hit her.

​Bryce’s finger had slipped on the remote, and the channel changed again, violently interrupting the muted sports commentary. Suddenly, the room filled with music unlike anything she had ever heard.

​A voice. Deep. Full. Soaring.

​It poured from the speakers like velvet and thunder combined, swelling with an emotion Eloise didn’t have words for yet—but felt instantly, intensely. It was a wave that washed away the colors of the room, leaving only the sound.

​She froze mid-step, one foot still pointed in mid-air. Her arms dropped slowly to her sides.

​The air felt different. Thicker. Like a sudden, silent wind had moved through the room even though the windows were closed.

​She walked closer to the television without realizing she was doing it, drawn by an invisible current, her eyes wide, her heart thudding violently in her chest, a physical reaction she couldn’t explain.

​On the screen, a large, charismatic man stood onstage in a tuxedo, his mouth open in a way that didn’t look possible, sound pouring out of him like something alive, something elemental. His voice climbed, rich and powerful, wrapping around her ribs, vibrating somewhere deep inside her like it recognized her before she recognized it.

​"Oh!" Eloise breathed, a tiny sound swallowed by the magnificence of the aria.

​Bryce reached for the remote again, ready to move on. "Let’s see what else is on—too loud for homework."

​"No!" she cried, louder than she meant to, desperation lacing the sound. She clamped her small hand over the remote protectively, covering the sensor. "Please. Don’t change it."

​Bryce blinked, surprised by the fierce intensity. "You like this? It’s not your usual Disney stuff."

​She nodded furiously, eyes never leaving the screen. "Who is that? What is that noise?"

​"That’s Luciano Pavarotti," Bryce said, smiling faintly at her unexpected reaction. "One of the greatest opera singers who ever lived. He’s singing an aria called ’Nessun Dorma.’"

​"Opera," Eloise repeated, tasting the word, letting the heavy sound roll off her tongue.

​The music swelled again, reaching its climax, and something inside her swelled with it. Her chest felt tight—not painful, just full, like she might burst if she didn’t let the sound out somehow. A pure, powerful feeling of resonance.

​"I want to do that," she said quietly, her voice barely audible over the music.

​Drake looked up now, finally pulling his eyes away from his math book. "Do what, Lise? Break glass?"

​She turned to them slowly, her green eyes shining with sudden, undeniable purpose. "I want to sing like him. I want to make that sound."

​The room went completely quiet, the intensity of the moment cutting through the final crescendo of the music.

​Drake looked stares at her, frozen mid-scoff. Martha peeked in from the kitchen doorway, her expression suddenly unreadable.

​Bryce studied his daughter carefully—not dismissive, not amused. Just attentive, recognizing the severity of the claim.

​"You want to sing like him?" He repeated, giving her the full weight of the question.

​"Yes," Eloise said, nodding so hard her necklace bounced against her chest. "I want to make sounds like that. Big ones. That make people stop and listen."

​Martha exchanged a brief, tight look with Bryce, a silent, complicated communication passing between them.

​"Well," Drake said dryly, breaking the tension. "That’s going to be loud. You can barely hold a note when we sing ’Happy Birthday.’"

​Eloise stuck her tongue out at him dismissively.

​Bryce smiled slowly, something proud and thoughtful forming behind his eyes, a willingness to indulge a dream. "Alright, Princess," he said, accepting the challenge. "Then we’ll find you a music school. If that’s the sound you want to make, we’ll help you find it."

​Her mouth fell open in shock and joy. "Really? You mean it?"

​"Really," he confirmed. "If you want it, we’ll make room for it. That kind of passion deserves an audience."

​She launched herself at him, scrambling over the arm of the chair and wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. "Thank you, Daddy! Thank you!"

​Martha laughed softly, returning to the reality of the dinner table. "Dinner!" she called. "Before she starts singing at the table and drives us all out of the house."

​Too late.

​Dinner was glorious chaos.

​Eloise sang between bites, trying to imitate the deep, rolling sound she’d heard, her small voice cracking and wobbling but filled with determined, dramatic flair. She sang nonsense syllables, stretching them dramatically, eyes closing like she was already onstage at La Scala.

​Drake groaned loudly. "I can’t believe this is my life now. I need earplugs."

​Bryce laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink. "She’s got passion, Drake. That’s what matters."

​Martha watched Eloise with something unreadable in her expression, her smile thinner than usual, a thread of worry woven into her domestic happiness.

​"Eat," she reminded gently. "Singing comes after the mashed potatoes."

​Eloise nodded, briefly obedient—for a whole thirty seconds—before launching into another dramatic, high-pitched note that shattered the temporary truce.

​When dinner finally ended, Eloise climbed onto the couch, exhausted but buzzing, humming softly to herself, the new music still echoing in her bones. Bryce sat beside her, arm draped easily around her shoulders, a protective anchor.

​"You really liked that," he said, his voice low.

​She nodded sleepily, leaning against his warmth. "It felt... like my chest was too small for my heart, Daddy. Like I needed to let the sound out."

​Bryce swallowed, his expression complex.

​"We’ll start with lessons," he said. "Voice. Piano. Something to build that sound from."

​She smiled, already dreaming of concert halls and soaring high notes.

​Later, as Bryce carried her up the stairs to bed, she clutched her necklace again, the heart pendant warm against her palm. "Daddy?"

​"Yes, Princess."

​"Do you think the person who gave me this likes music too?"

​Bryce paused in the doorway of her room, his gaze fixed on the pendant.

​"I think," he said carefully, his voice laced with the quiet gravity of a secret, "they’d recognize your voice anywhere."

​She smiled, eyes drifting shut, the image of the man in the tuxedo and the massive sound of his voice mixing with the security of her father’s presence. She was home.