Blind Sonata_Chapter - 1

Rural Vermont basked in the last glow of early morning

light, a soft mist clinging to the rolling hills like a curtain

yet to rise. Dew sparkled on kale leaves, beans coiled along

trellises, and neat rows of cabbage shimmered in the haze.

Somewhere among the green, a wild hare rustled, its

movement barely perceptible to the untrained eye.

The hare froze. In the distance, boots crunched on the

gravel path that cut through the vegetable patch. A

farmer—thick-shouldered, red-faced, rifle in hand—moved

through the crops with quiet menace. He wasn’t here to

harvest.

The hare darted. Its eyes, clouded and gray, revealed it as

blind, yet it moved with uncanny precision, guided by

sound and scent. The farmer raised the rifle, lining the

creature in his crosshairs. A breath held. A finger tensed.

A shot cracked through the silence, sending birds into

flight.

Cut to black.

Two hundred miles away, in a modest brownstone

apartment tucked on the outskirts of Boston, Adam Reed's

fingers danced over the ivory keys of his digital piano.

Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata rippled through the room, a

cascade of melancholic tones under his fingertips.

Adam, 28, dark-haired and lean, wore a pair of dark

sunglasses and a half-buttoned flannel shirt. His expression

was one of deep concentration, head tilted as if listening to

something beyond the notes. From a distance, he appeared

blind. Up close, it was harder to tell. The stillness in his

gaze, the subtle tracking of shadows—a man with secrets in

his silence.

Three weeks into his self-imposed blindness. A sabbatical

from sight and soundbites, from life’s distractions. He told

people he was researching the connection between sensory

deprivation and musical depth. But really, he wanted

distance. From expectations. From a past he'd buried.

He paused, brows furrowing. The Sonata’s final movement

eluded him. He played the passage again. And again. Each

time, the crescendo faltered.

Then, from outside his apartment door—a faint thump.

Adam froze.

He resumed playing, unconcerned. Until—

WHAM.

The door creaked open, and in shot a length of cord

stretched across the threshold. As Adam stood to adjust the

volume dial, his foot caught.

He stumbled forward, narrowly avoiding a face-plant into

the keys.

"Goddammit, Tommy," he muttered.

The hallway erupted in giggles. The mischievous culprit, a

shaggy-haired twelve-year-old, peeked through the

door frame like a raccoon caught rifling through trash.

"I thought you were blind, Mr. Reed," Tommy grinned,

unapologetic. "You walked straight into it."

Adam adjusted his sunglasses. "Blind people can still trip,

you know."

"You cussed. Blind people don’t cuss."

"What rulebook says that?" Adam stepped toward him.

"Come here."

Tommy hesitated. Adam held out his hand, friendly.

Trusting.

Tommy took it.

Adam squeezed. Just enough to make the boy yelp.

"Ow! Ow! Okay! Sorry! Geez!"

"Next time you set a trap, remember this handshake."

He released the kid, who rubbed his fingers with theatrical

pain.

"Fine. But I’m telling my mom you manhandled a visually

impaired person."

"Tell her I offered you piano lessons. You could use the

discipline."

The kid stuck out his tongue and scampered off.

Adam closed the door and exhaled, listening for the

retreating footsteps.

Then he turned, walked calmly to the kitchen counter, and

took off his sunglasses.

His eyes, unclouded and sharp, adjusted to the light. He

squinted at the wall clock—4:17 PM.

"Shit," he muttered, grabbing his cane and messenger bag.

He popped a case open, removed a tiny contact lens, and

slid it over each eye. Instantly, his pupils turned a milky

gray. The mirror reflected a man seemingly robbed of sight.

The illusion was complete.

Outside, the city rumbled. Cars sped by. Sirens groaned in

the distance. Adam tapped his cane rhythmically,

performing the part he’d rehearsed for weeks.

He walked with fluidity, not flawless but practiced. A white

rabbit charm dangled from the handle of his cane, bouncing

with each step. A gift from a forgotten past, a symbol he

kept close.

As he rounded the corner onto Tremont Street, a yellow

taxi splashed to a stop.

"Where to, buddy?" the driver called.

Adam tilted his head. "Frankie’s Jazz Club. Cambridge."

"Hop in."

Adam slid into the back seat, careful to keep his expression

blank. As the city blurred by, he rested his fingers on his

knees, each twitch and tap mimicking the melody still

unfinished in his head.

He didn’t know what waited for him at Frankie’s. He didn’t

know about Paul Sinclair or Simone or the pistol tucked in

a drawer across town.

For now, the Sonata was enough.

But life, like music, rarely sticks to the score.

And in less than an hour, Adam Reed would play a note

that would reverberate through death.

The taxi stopped. Adam fished out cash.

"You sure you don’t need help getting out?" the driver

asked.

"I’ve got it, thanks."

He stepped out into the fading sun, tapping his way toward

the entrance of the club, a modest brick building

sandwiched between a bakery and a laundromat. Its neon

sign blinked unevenly: FRANKIE'S.

The door creaked open with a heavy sigh.

Inside, cigarette smoke curled in lazy spirals, and glasses

clinked behind the bar. A few early patrons turned at the

sight of the blind man entering, their curiosity barely

masked.

Adam didn’t react.

He felt his way to the piano near the stage. His fingers

found the bench, the keys. He took a breath and played a

simple scale.

It echoed gently.

A woman’s voice called from the bar. "Hey, you must be

the guy Frank hired. Adam, right?"

Adam turned toward the voice, smiled. "That’s me."

She crossed the room in a few confident strides. Tall, with

wild auburn curls and a crooked grin, she wore a leather

jacket and boots that had seen a dozen winters. She

extended a hand.

"Sophia. I pour drinks and break hearts. Mostly in that

order."

Adam shook her hand.

"You gonna impress the boss, or do I need to play backup

with spoons?"

"Depends," Adam replied. "Are you better with spoons than

with sarcasm?"

Sophia snorted. "Play, Mozart. Let’s see what you got."

Adam adjusted the bench, cracked his knuckles, and placed

his fingers on the keys.

This time, the Sonata flowed.

Each note struck with quiet authority, as if summoned from

a place deeper than memory. The bar hushed. Glasses

stilled. A man in the corner, mid-conversation, stopped

speaking mid-sentence.

Adam played with eyes closed. Not in pretense. But in

reverence.

When he finished, the room exhaled.

"Well damn," Sophia whispered. "You’re gonna cause a stir

around here."

Behind him, footsteps approached.

"Mind if I sit in?" asked a new voice. Male. Polished. With

the weary confidence of someone used to being watched.

Adam turned slightly. "Not at all."

The man slid a thick envelope into Adam’s jacket pocket

and tapped the top of the piano.

"Come play at my place tomorrow. Beacon Hill. Noon.

Consider that an invitation."

He left before Adam could reply.

Sophia watched him go, her brow furrowed.

"Do you know who that was?"

Adam shook his head. "Should I?"

"Paul Sinclair. Used to be a big Hollywood guy. Retired

now. Loaded. Likes his privacy. That invitation? It’s more

like a summons."

Adam exhaled slowly, sensing the shift beneath the surface.

He played a soft chord, letting it hang.

Outside, the evening descended.

And the darkness was just beginning.