Love,Written In Ruins-Chapter 36: I’ll Be Your Scout

At ten years old, Eloise already understood the magic of Saturdays.

​Saturdays meant no shrieking alarm clocks demanding attention before the sun rose. No scratchy uniforms, and No rushing, hurried breakfasts. Saturdays meant family plans and laughter and the promise of something fun waiting just beyond the front door. It was the weekly reset button.

​That morning, she patiently sat on the edge of the living-room rug already meticulously dressed—a bright yellow sundress, pristine white sneakers, her dark-brown hair pulled back with a ribbon she’d chosen carefully because it felt like a day that deserved attention and care. Her familiar necklace rested against her collarbone, the small heart pendant warm and comforting.

​Her mother, Martha, was doing laundry in the next room, but she had turned on the television while folding clothes, more out of habit than genuine interest. The sound was low at first—talking, polite applause—but then a deeply familiar name floated through the room, cutting through the usual domestic sounds.

​​"...the great Luciano Pavarotti, returning to the Met stage for a special interview..."

​Eloise’s head snapped up from watching dust motes dance in the morning light. 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

​The screen shifted, showing a brightly lit set, and there he was.

​Older than she remembered from last time, heavier maybe, silver tracing the edges of his dark hair, but the same immense presence. The same gravity. When he smiled, the entire studio seemed to tilt toward him. When he laughed, it filled the room, rich and unguarded. The sound of his voice—even speaking—wrapped around the room like velvet.

​Eloise sank onto the floor without realizing she was moving, eyes wide, heart thudding with the same reverent awe she’d felt years earlier when she first heard him sing. She had found her musical lodestar.

​Her mother sat on the couch, folding clothes into neat, precise stacks, glancing up occasionally from her work. "You’re going to miss the park if you glue yourself to that screen," Martha said lightly, folding a t-shirt into a perfect square.

​"But he’s talking about singing," Eloise whispered, as though speaking louder might shatter the moment or scare the sound away. "Listen, Mom. He’s talking about breath control."

​Pavarotti laughed on-screen, warm and booming, responding to the interviewer’s question about the difficulty of high C’s. Eloise smiled unconsciously, utterly captivated.

​The plan for the day was simple—perfect in its symmetry.

​First, Bryce would take Eloise to look around the music school he’d been researching for months. A real one this time. Proper teachers, who focused on classical technique. Practice rooms with soundproofing. Structure. Something that matched the seriousness with which she’d taken her singing practice over the last two years.

​After that, they’d swing by the motel—the one her parents owned just off the highway, all sun-faded signage and humming vending machines—to pick up Martha and Drake once Martha finished some essential paperwork and Drake helped out around the front desk.

​Then: the amusement park.

​Cotton candy. The dizzying heights of the Ferris wheel. Roller coasters that made you scream without fear. The promise of sheer, unadulterated family fun.

​The stairs creaked, signaling the beginning of the day’s action.

​Bryce appeared first, keys in hand, baseball cap pulled low over his dark hair. He was the picture of a relaxed, capable suburban father. Drake followed, taller now, shoulders broader, already looking less like a boy and more like someone who’d outgrow childhood before anyone was ready.

​"Alright," Bryce said brightly, jingling the keys. "Music school first, Princess, then we tackle those loop-de-loops."

​Eloise didn’t turn away from the television screen. Her lips pushed into a pout so exaggerated Drake snorted.

​"Oh no," he said, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "She’s in opera mode. Prepare for the drama."

​"I just want to finish watching," she muttered, trying to catch every word of the great tenor’s advice.

​Bryce chuckled, walking over and playfully trying to wrestle the remote from her. "You’ll hear him again, Princess. He has millions of recordings."

​"But he’s talking about his voice," she protested, finally turning to face them, her eyes still shimmering with borrowed inspiration. "That’s important information for my future career."

​​"And your school is also important," Bryce countered, his tone gentle but firm. "The first step in doing is preparing."

​Her shoulders slumped, but she nodded slowly, accepting the inevitable pull of schedules. Still, she lingered—one last glance at the screen, one last breath of borrowed music and presence.

​Drake stepped closer, slung an arm over her shoulder and ruffled her hair roughly. "Tell you what, Lise. I’ll go with Dad and check the place out for you. I’ll make sure the chairs are comfy and the piano keys aren’t too sticky."

​She looked up at him, surprised and touched. "Really? You’d do that?"

​​"Really," he confirmed. "Someone has to make sure it passes inspection. I’ll be your scout."

​Martha stepped in then, wiping her hands on a towel, her voice soft but firm, making the decision final. "That sounds like a good plan. I’ll take Eloise to the motel after the interview finishes," she said. "I need to check the inventory and payroll anyway. You two go ahead, and we’ll meet you there."

​Bryce hesitated, the smallest furrow in his brow. "You sure? I wanted to see my princess’s face when she saw the music rooms."

​Martha nodded, her smile fixed. "We’ll meet you there, then straight to the amusement park. Go now, traffic is getting heavy. And you will see the look on her face on her first day of school."

​Eloise hesitated for a moment longer, then nodded slowly, eyes flicking back to the television as Bryce and Drake headed toward the front door.

​The front door closed. The sound was soft, final.

​The house felt quieter immediately. The warmth of the father-son energy was gone.

​When the interview finally ended, Eloise sighed as if waking from a deep, mesmerizing dream. She grabbed her small bag, and Martha ushered her out, locking the door securely behind them before hailing a taxi.

​The Winters motel sat just off the main road—a modest two-story building with a sun-faded sign and neatly trimmed hedges Bryce insisted on maintaining himself. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was sturdy, it was honest, and it was theirs. It was the bedrock of their lives, the enterprise that had paid for school supplies and dance classes and groceries and dreams.

​The sign buzzed faintly, missing a letter so that MOTEL read MOTL, the dark gap where the E should have been flickering uselessly. Eloise loved it anyway, seeing the humor in its imperfection.

​She liked the way the keys jangled at the front desk. Liked the institutional smell of clean sheets and strong soap. Liked that the staff—the people her parents employed—smiled at her like she belonged—because she did.

​The taxi driver parked, and Eloise hopped out, immediately greeting the front desk clerk like an old friend.

​"Hi, Mrs. Thompson! Guess what?"

​"Hello, sweetheart," the kind woman said warmly, pushing her glasses up her nose. "Big day planned?"

​"We’re going to the amusement park," Eloise announced proudly. "And I’m going to a real music school soon, Drake is inspecting it now."

​Mrs. Thompson chuckled. "Sounds important, darling."

​Martha gave Eloise a quick kiss on the head, her hands already reaching for the papers in her oversized bag. "Stay here, little swan. Sit quietly. I’ll be in the office, just through that door."

​Eloise sat on the lobby couch, swinging her legs, humming softly, practicing a scale. She imagined Drake walking through wide, echoey music halls, her father nodding seriously at refined teachers. She imagined herself older, standing on a stage, the lights warm on her skin, the notes high and pure filling the space.

​Time passed. Slowly.

​Then more time.

​She checked the clock above the front desk. Once. Twice.

​An hour slipped by.

​Her excitement dulled into confusion. Why were they so late? The music school wasn’t that far.

​Martha emerged briefly, spoke to one of the workers in hushed tones, then returned to the cramped back office. Eloise watched the door, expecting at any moment to see her father’s familiar stride, Drake’s lazy grin and an exaggerated report of his "inspection."

​Nothing.

​Two hours passed.

​The lobby grew quieter, settling into the mid-day lull. The sun shifted, and long, lazy shadows stretched across the patterned linoleum floor.

​Eloise’s humming stopped entirely.

​Her mother came out again, frowning now, her hand gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles were white. She dialed once, the sound of the buttons clicking sharp in the silence. Then again.

​No answer.

​​"Mom?" Eloise asked softly, the small, questioning sound barely crossing the distance.

​Martha smiled too quickly, a brittle, manufactured expression. "They’re probably just running late."

​But they never were. Not like this. Time stretched, unfamiliar and wrong, and Eloise felt it settle in her chest like a warning she didn’t yet have words for. Her mother’s fingers trembled as she lowered the phone, the smile still fixed in place, as if letting it fall would let something else—something awful—in.

​The phone rang.

​The sound cut through the room too sharply, too loud for something so ordinary. Martha snatched it up instantly—and then froze.

​Eloise watched her mother’s face change in real time, as if something invisible were stripping layers away. The color drained first, leaving her skin pale and tight, the tension etching lines around her eyes. Her eyes widened, glassy, unfocused, as though whatever she was hearing had pulled her somewhere far beyond the physical room. Then came the fear—raw and unfiltered, blooming so suddenly it made Eloise’s chest ache. She had never seen that look on her mother’s face before. Not worry. Not anger. Fear. The kind that kills.

​"Mom?" Eloise whispered, barely trusting her own voice, pushing herself off the couch.

​Martha said something into the phone—just a breath of sound, broken and unintelligible, a desperate plea. Then the receiver slipped from her hand. It hit the floor with a hollow clatter that echoed too long in the suddenly vast room. Martha stumbled backward, fingers grasping frantically for the edge of the desk as though the ground itself had shifted beneath her.

​Her knees buckled. She collapsed into the chair, hands shaking violently now, her mouth opening and closing like she was trying—and failing—to remember how to breathe.

​"Mom?" Eloise stood, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. The room felt wrong suddenly, tilted, as if gravity had decided to change its mind. The walls seemed farther away. The air heavier.

​Martha stared straight ahead, her eyes wide and empty, fixed on a horror only she could see, as though she was still listening—to a voice that had already hung up.