Chapter 181: Chapter 181

By midday, the village square had transformed into a soft hum of voices, laughter, and footsteps crunching over gravel.

Boxes of colored banners sat under the trees. Children ran past with paper lanterns clutched to their chests like treasure.

The scent of dough frieds and roasted corn drifted faintly through the air.

Mr. Dand, standing near the well with a cloth tucked into his waistband, waved them over. "You two," he called. "If you’re done playing bookstore dreams, maybe help us string some banners before the sun sets?"

Artur gave a half-smirk. "We weren’t playing."

Billy nudged him with his elbow. "He means we were sealing life-changing deals."

Mr. Dand raised a brow but said nothing—just tossed them each a bundle of cloth banners. "Up they go. From the bakery to the post office. And try not to trip over the little ones—they’re wild today."

They got to work, threading twine through loops. Every time Billy passed a banner up, Artur caught it with a quick, efficient tug—never looking down, but always knowing Billy was there.

"Don’t fall," Billy said, holding a banner out.

"I’m not you," Artur shot back, smirking as he reached up.

Billy grinned. "I’ll remind you of that the next time you nearly trip over the dog."

A burst of wind tugged at the loose fabric, slapping it gently against Artur’s face. He cursed under his breath and tried to pull it free.

Billy laughed so hard he nearly dropped the next banner. "It’s fighting you."

"It has a personal vendetta," Artur muttered, finally securing the cloth into place. He looked down. "Still laughing?"

Billy tilted his head. "Just admiring the view."

Artur flushed faintly. "Idiot."

As the afternoon stretched on, they helped carry tables into the square, tie bright ribbons around tree trunks, and hang paper stars from the fence near the chapel.

Billy found himself talking to strangers, joking with kids, and even trying to braid the little streamer cords for one of the village women—badly.

Artur watched from a distance for a while, arms folded, quietly smiling as Billy handed the tangled mess back with a sheepish look.

"You weren’t lying," the woman chuckled. "You’re definitely not from here."

"Not yet," Billy said with a shrug. "But I’m working on it."

By the time the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in a soft honey glow, the square had come alive.

Lights flickered gently above, dancing with the wind, and laughter carried through the air like music.

Billy wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked over at Artur, who was sitting on the steps of the bakery, sipping cold soda from a glass bottle.

He walked over and plopped beside him. "We did good."

Artur nodded. "Looks better than last year."

"You say that last year?"

"No. Only when you’re around."

Billy turned to him, the teasing smirk softening. "You’re really bad at compliments."

"I’m learning," Artur said, then looked away, fighting a smile.

Billy bumped his shoulder lightly. "Keep practicing."

From across the square, Mr. Dand’s voice rang out again—calling everyone for the final test of the lights before nightfall.

Billy stood, brushing the dust from his jeans. "C’mon, partner. Let’s go see if we strung these up right."

Artur rose beside him, and together they walked back into the glow of the square—like two quiet pieces finally falling into place.

As the sky softened into dusk, golden threads of light tangled in the trees, the first round of paper lanterns blinked to life.

Artur gave the last string of bulbs a gentle tug before plugging them in.

A shimmer of soft white flickered overhead. Then, one by one, each bulb joined, casting a dreamy glow across the square.

Murmurs of approval rippled from the gathered volunteers. Someone clapped.

"Not bad," Artur muttered, stepping back to admire their work.

Billy, standing beside him, looked up at the lights, a subtle grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "We didn’t burn the square down. That’s a win."

Across the clearing, Mr. Dand was in conversation with a silver-haired elder near the chapel steps—Old Merko, who always walked with a carved cane and a disapproving squint.

"You got anyone for the music yet?" Mr. Dand asked, voice low but not exactly private.

Merko shook his head. "That young accordion boy left last spring. We need someone who can handle an instrument that isn’t falling apart."

Mr. Dand scratched his beard, then turned his head, eyes scanning the square. They landed squarely on Billy.

"Billy here," he said, raising his voice. "He plays piano."

Billy blinked. "I—what?"

Heads turned. Artur glanced sideways at him, brows raised.

Mr. Dand gestured toward him casually. "He played last week. Has a good touch. Steady fingers."

Billy laughed under his breath, a nervous sound. "That was in your living room. Not in front of everyone."

"Well," Mr. Dand said, folding his arms, "a piano’s a piano. And the crowd’s just villagers, not a panel of judges."

Billy scratched the back of his neck. "I haven’t... played in a while. Not properly."

"You’ll have four days to remember," Mr. Dand said. "That’s plenty."

Billy looked to Artur, half-expecting him to step in, to rescue him with a quick excuse.

Instead, Artur only shrugged, and somehow that small gesture felt like both a dare and a hand on his back the faintest smile on his lips. "You’ll be fine."

Billy hesitated, lips parted, unsure how to say no without sounding like he was making excuses.

Mr. Dand clapped him on the shoulder. "You’ll open the festival. Just one or two songs. Nothing fancy. We’ll roll out the old upright from the hall."

Billy exhaled through his nose, already feeling the pressure pressing into his ribs.

But the warmth in Mr. Dand’s voice wasn’t unkind. It wasn’t a demand—it was trust.

He nodded slowly. "Alright. I’ll try."

"That’s the spirit," Mr. Dand said. Then, turning to Merko, "See? Sometimes the answer is standing right in front of you."

Billy stepped back beside Artur, his nerves trailing behind him like a thread.

"You sure you’re okay with that?" Artur asked under his breath.

"I guess I don’t have a choice," Billy murmured, then glanced up at the lanterns. "But... maybe it’s time."

Artur’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer—curious, thoughtful. "If you need help practicing, I know where the village piano’s hiding."

Billy chuckled softly. "Let me guess—haunted basement?"

"Worse," Artur said, straight-faced. "The mayor’s office."

Billy groaned. "Perfect."

And despite the nerves settling in his stomach, he smiled as they walked off together—already feeling the weight of the keys beneath his fingers, and the beginning of something unfamiliar yet warm blooming quietly in his chest.

That night, the glow of the lanterns had followed him into his dreams.

In the morning, they were still there—warm, insistent—as the mist curled over the grass.

The village stirred slowly beneath a soft quilt of clouds.

Mist clung to the grass, the air cool and quiet.

From the open window, birdsong trickled in, light and unhurried. Inside, the house was still.

Billy sat alone in the kitchen, fingers wrapped around a mug that had gone lukewarm.

He hadn’t slept much. His mind had been busy—chords and melodies flashing like static behind his eyes.

Not fear exactly. Just the weight of something he hadn’t touched in a long time.

Artur stepped in, hair still damp from his morning rinse, a towel slung over his shoulder. His gaze found Billy instantly.

"You’re up early," he said, grabbing a clean mug and pouring himself some tea.

Billy smiled faintly. "Didn’t really sleep."

Artur sat down across from him, silent for a moment. Then: "Thinking about the piano?"

Billy nodded, eyes dropping to the rim of his cup. "It’s silly, I know. It’s just a village festival."

"It’s not silly." Artur leaned back, eyes warm but direct. "It means something. To them... and maybe to you."

Billy looked at him. "You make it sound like some kind of heroic journey."

Artur chuckled under his breath. "Not heroic. But something real. And you’ve done it before, remember?"

Artur tilted his head. "That night... at your place in the city. You played for me."

Billy let the memory surface.

The apartment bathed in amber lamplight. Rain against the windows.

His hands, tentative at first, then steadier as Artur listened, quiet and unmoving on the couch.

"You said it sounded like a conversation," Billy murmured.

"It did," Artur said. "Still does."

Billy stared at him a moment, something shifting behind his expression. "That night... I was scared to play too. Until you were there."

Artur held his gaze. "Then I’ll be there again."

The words settled between them like a soft promise.

Later That Morning – The Mayor’s Office

The so-called ’music room’ was tucked behind a cluttered archive of boxes and festival props.

Dust floated in the air as Billy stepped inside, Artur following close behind with a flashlight and two bottles of water.

At the center, under a drop cloth, sat the upright piano.

Its dark wood was faded, one leg slightly chipped, but the keys were clean. Reverent, almost.

Billy walked up slowly, ran a hand along its edge. "She’s old."

"She’s loyal," Artur said, setting the bottles on a chair. "And she still sings."

Billy hesitated. Then pulled the cover back and sat down. The bench creaked softly under him.

He took a breath, let his fingers rest on the keys—just barely touching. Then pressed one. Then another.

The first notes were hesitant, as if the piano was waking up with him—wood groaning softly, strings humming under the weight of his touch.

Billy exhaled slowly. Let his shoulders fall. And then—he began to play.

Not loud. Not grand. But steady. Melodic. Like something being remembered, not invented.

Artur leaned against the wall, arms folded. His eyes didn’t leave Billy.

And when Billy finally lifted his hands from the keys, the last note still lingering in the quiet, he turned.

Artur smiled. "She still sings."

Billy smiled back, soft and open. "Yeah... I guess she does."