Francine — Chapter Two

The world is not entirely broken

I’m on my way to Dhiseig, farther along the ring road.

A man there has an upright piano for sale. All I have is a phone number and a voice that told me, quite firmly, he wouldn’t take less than two thousand pounds.

It’s more than I can really afford.

I’m hoping charm might work.

Gilda has called twice already this morning.

I ignored it both times.

Music first. Everything else later.

If I can get the piano for, say, fifteen hundred, I have songs waiting, half-finished, that have been sitting quietly inside me, waiting for somewhere to land.

God. The rain is relentless.

The road has narrowed to a single lane. Every few minutes, I pull in to let a tractor rumble past, trailers heavy with something unseen beneath tarpaulins.

Each time, I catch myself hoping it might be Brannon.

I roll my eyes at myself.

It’s only three miles from my rented cottage.

The sign reads Talla Rainbow.

The drive to the house curves away from the road, leading me toward a cottage tucked into the side of a mountain. Even through the rain, there’s something about the place, quiet, settled, as if it’s been waiting a very long time for someone to notice it.

I park in the courtyard.

For a moment, I sit there, listening to the rain on the roof.

Then I step out.

The door is white, solid, with a heavy black knocker shaped like a ram’s head.

It falls with a dull, certain thud.

The door opens almost immediately.

“Well now, you must be Francine. Come along in, lassie.”

His voice is warm and welcoming without effort.

“Thank you,” I say, stepping inside. “You have a beautiful place.”

“Aye, that it is. Jacket?”

He holds out his hand to receive it.

Inside, the cottage is… extraordinary.

Not grand. Not showy. But everything has been chosen, placed, lived with.

There’s a quiet kind of care in it. The sort that makes you want to sit down and stay.

“This way,” he says. “The piano’s in the front room. Nice view over the loch.”

And there it is.

An upright Wurlitzer. Polished. Loved.

“I’m Bernard, my friends and family call me Bunny,” he says with a giggle in the back of his throat. “It’s well cared for,” he says. “Go on, try it, if you like.”

I hesitate.

“I haven’t played in years,” I admit. “I’ll be terrible.”

“All the better reason.”

He smiles, then turns. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

I sit.

For a moment, I just rest my fingers on the keys.

Then I begin.

It comes back slowly.

Not perfectly. Not cleanly. But enough.

Fragments of old compositions. Pieces of who I used to be. Notes I haven’t touched in years, finding their way back through muscle and memory.

I forget where I am and what time it is.

When I stop, the room feels fuller.

The door opens wider.

“Ah,” he says, carrying in a tray. “Thought I’d let you be for a while.”

The tea is laid out properly, china cups, shortbread, and even a knitted cozy.

“So, you’re Francine Murray,” he says, studying me. “I should’ve known. That’s your own music. My wife loved it.”

I feel heat rise in my face.

“You play?” I ask.

He chuckles softly. “I did. My wife, however, she was the real musician. She’s gone. Twenty years now.”

He says it without heaviness. Just truth.

“I still have her,” he adds, almost lightly. “The rest… they’re only things.”

We sit with tea.

It’s warm, quiet, and easy.

Until—

“They were killed,” I say, before I can stop myself. “My parents. A few weeks ago.”

The words fall into the room and stay there.

His expression shifts instantly. Not pity. Something steadier.

“Ah, lass, I read that in the newspaper,” he says gently. “I’m so sorry.”

He passes me tissues without ceremony.

“Never be ashamed of tears.”

I look at the piano
At his hands
At the room

And I know, suddenly, that I can’t haggle him down.

“Bunny,” I say, “it’s worth what you’re asking. I’ll pay it.”

Then, softer:

“But… would you play something first?”

He nods.

Moves to the piano.

Sits.

What he plays isn’t a performance.

It’s memory.

It begins softly, like light at the edge of something, and then grows. There are storms in it. Loss. Anger. Something is breaking, and something is refusing to.

And then…

stillness.

When he turns back to me, his eyes are wet.

Mine are too.

“That was…” I start.

He smiles faintly. “Aye.”

I reach for my checkbook.

“Francine,” he says, stopping me. “Perhaps we might try something else.”

He offers me the piano for a year.

No payment.

Just… trust.

“If I miss it,” he says, “… at odd timesyou’ll let me come and play.”

I don’t even hesitate.

“Yes.”

We sit a while longer, talking about the island. About the name, Talla Rainbow.

It suits the place.

It suits him.

When I leave, I hug him.

Without thinking.

He laughs softly and returns it, solid and kind.

The rain is heavier now.

I’m soaked by the time I reach the car.

I try the ignition.

Nothing.

I close my eyes.

Perfect.

A knock at the window startles me.

Bunny stands there, umbrella in hand.

“Come back in, lass.”

Inside again, by the fire, I sit close to the warmth.

He moves easily through the room, already solving the problem before I can worry about it.

And as I watch him, this gentle man in a quiet cottage, carrying his past without letting it weigh him down, I realize something I haven’t felt in a long time.

The world, perhaps, is not entirely broken.

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