1-17 Bennington, Vermont

Edward plays melancholy music when he’s upset. Sometimes, it’s the only way any of the rest of us have to even figure it out.

So I was expecting the minor chords and the slow dirges when they started up. He sat there, his hair falling over his forehead as he leaned in toward the keyboard with each press; his brow wrinkling like it was taking a lot of effort. Which was completely silly; it doesn’t take us effort to do anything.

Edward disappears like that, sometimes. It can be hours; he’ll sit at the keyboard pedaling and playing, and the whole house will ring with some sad song. I didn’t know music before the Cullens, but I know it know—Rachmaninoff is mad, and Liszt is sad, and Bach is content.

Joplin is for Esme.

But Edward rarely plays that.

I went in to sit next to him on the bench. The moment my bottom hit the wood, however, the piano closed with a thud, and Edward was gone.


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