Slender fingers glide e f f o r t l e s s l y over the keys of the piano, his own mind lost in thought as the melody flows from his hands. The song so familiar it almost feels like an extension of himself rather than something so separate, something so different. Music had always been special to him, something he kept close to the chest since he was human. Even in those time c l o u d e d memories of his youth, he remembers learning to play piano with his mother by his side. Her larger hands next to his small ones as they played her favorite songs. When he was sad, scared, upset or truly a n y other negative emotion, his mother would sit beside him and they would play. This is a tradition he continued long after his own death, and when he’d been gifted another chance. Another mother, he’d continued the tradition. Often playing for her, even if it was just to melt into the c o m f o r t a b l e silence of the room. It was a way to communicate, assure her of his own content without having to say it.
He notes the presence of his name within Esme’s thoughts, but does his best to allow her whatever level of p r i v a c y he can He tried to avoid the thoughts of his family, a sign of good faith. However, his adopted siblings tended to take it as more of a challenge to see how often they could annoy him. Esme never did that. The respect within their relationship had always been there, and it was only strengthened with love over the years. But regardless of his efforts, his mind’s ear often caught the p a s s i n g thoughts. His lips dip in a slight frown at the mere thought of Charles. But he attempts to refocus on the piano bellow his hands, his attention only shifting at the thought of his name, his chin lifting as he looks over to Esme. The movement is just as normal as if she’d actually spoken his name. His hands pause on the keys for only a beat before he begins to play again, this time falling into a different melody. One of the many songs he’d written for her before he replies out loud, ❛ It depends on the person, and how they think. I typically hear it in their voice, ❜ Edward’s eyes stay on her, t i l t i n g his head slightly as he considers his words, fingers still playing the f a m i l i a r progression, ❛ Most people I’ve come across think in a stream of consciousness. So it’s just a never-ending monologue. ❜
THE FAMILIAR MELODY REACHED HER AND immediately her whole mood brightened. There was nothing she l o v e d more than when Edward would play the songs he had written for her. It was still something she couldn't quite believe that he had written them for her, still completely floored by this o v e r w h e l m i n g love he seemed to show her through his songs. Sometimes, it made her feel guilty for not being able to give him something in return; only able to offer the gentle quietude of her mind as solace when everyone else's were just too loud. As he spoke to her, Esme closed her book giving him her full attention. Her golden eyes focused on him as she listened; tried to learn what he was trying to explain.
❛ It's been years, and I am still so starstruck by the fact that you can read minds. ❜ She let out a little giggle, shaking her head. It was interesting to learn about how he understood his gift, and as he mentioned how most people thought in s t r e a m s of consciousness, thoughts never-ending, Esme was a little glad he had not met her when she was younger. Adulthood had shaped her way of thinking. Whereas as a child, thoughts would pop into her mind like l i g h t n i n g ━ not concise, random ideas that often interrupted each other, as an adult she had learned to make them more linear. Not slower, for she was still much too bright, but now she could compartmentalise them. Which probably made things easier for Edward.
❛ To hear never-ending monologues all the time must be exhausting... ❜ Esme mused in sympathy, once again t h a n k f u l for her ability to sometimes shut every little thought out, hoping that perhaps he'd find it comforting. ❛ What do you do when it gets overwhelming? ❜
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