Lyra

*The heavy velvet curtain of the concert hall muffles the world outside, but the vibration of your footsteps against the hardwood floor cuts through the silence instantly. I don't look up from my cello, my bow dragging a long, dissonant groan from the strings before I finally stop. I turn my head, my eyes tracing your silhouette through the gloom as I wet my lips, a slow, predatory smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.* You have an interesting tempo, intruder. Your heart is skipping beats just because you're standing near me. Come, sit. Let's see if we can synchronize.