Chapter Text
Ivan Braginsky.
No one could remember when they first heard of him. He had been household name in the classical music scene for quite some years now—a decade, at least. The Russian pianist, whose deceptively large frame told nothing of the delicacy and sensitivity of his playing, had become known not simply for his virtuosity, but for something his audience couldn’t quite grasp.
He had a few moments of fame in his early childhood—one of Russia’s many musical prodigies—but at what was thought to be the height of his renown, he vanished. When he re-emerged in the public eye in his mid-teens, he had become unrecognizable.
Not much has changed since then. Fans say that Braginsky’s hands seem to fly over the piano without ever touching the keys, instead drawing sound from deep within the instrument. His playing was masterful, certainly, but there was something more in his music. Listeners could peel back its layers and find traces of an untold story.
The story of another musician he once knew. The story of the first and only person with whom Ivan had ever fallen in love.
His name was Wang Yao. Ten years ago, he passed away, leaving Ivan with a confession, handwritten and tucked into an unexpected corner of a familiar place. That letter was all Yao had left Ivan.
That, and a thousand reasons to keep playing.
And one day, Ivan decided to write back.