Next to me, Karl shifted in his seat.
Kieran continued. “This is a piece I have been working on for some time.” He paused. “It was written for my partner, Stefan Weber.”
I didn’t move. I wasn’t entirely sure I’d heard him correctly.
Around me, there was a subtle shift, as people’s attention sharpened.
I was aware of Karl, sitting so very still. Diana leaned forward to catch my eye. A few rows behind me, I caught Dieter’s unmistakable throaty chuckle.
All of that felt distant, because Kieran chose that moment to turn his head and seek me out. Our eyes met, and my chest tightened.
This was neither spontaneous nor impulsive. This wasn’t something he had decided in the moment.
This has been planned.
For me.
And then I realised that whatever this was, I wasn’t prepared for it.
Kieran sat once more at the piano, placed his fingers on the keys, and began.
I recognised it almost immediately, the same piece I’d heard in fragments a year ago, when it had existed only as something half-formed, something he hadn’t yet trusted enough to name.
It had changed.
The opening bars unfolded slowly, moving with a kind of quiet curiosity, as if the music was feeling its way forward, testing each step before committing to it.
This was Kieran at the beginning, careful, trying to understand where he stood, what he was.
Then it shifted, growing warmer, steadier, another harmony entering, another voice, and they moved together, sometimes in tension, sometimes in ease, like a conversation.
Like us.
The harmonies broadened, opened out, no longer searching in the same way. There was still movement, still forward motion, but it was as if Kieran had found his footing, not because the ground had become stable, but becausehehad.
A brief stillness slid out on the air, and then the theme returned, altered now, fuller, the earlier hesitation replaced with something quieter and far more dangerous.
Trust.
I exhaled slowly. Around me, the audience was still, but I was no longer aware of them.
Only of this, of him.
The final passage built without force, resolving into something sustained. The last chord lingered, and then there was silence.
For a moment, I didn’t move, because I understood, with absolute clarity, that this was not just a piece of music.
It was what he’d made of us, what he’d taken and transformed.
The whole audience was on their feet, the applause loud and unrelenting. Kieran stood on the stage, the moment totally his. His gaze met mine, and he blew me a kiss, then disappeared backstage.
The interval couldn’t come fast enough.
The corridor leading to the rear of the church was quieter, the sound of the audience fading behind closed doors. I stepped into the room to find Kieran in conversation with another pianist. Greg, I remembered. He clapped Kieran on the arm, then moved past me toward the door, a brief swell of noise following him before it closed again.
Kieran stood by the window, watching me as I crossed the floor to join him. I had no idea what my first words would be. I hadn’t heard a single note of the performances that had followed his. I’d done nothing but think about what I would say to him, and now that I was there, whatever I’d prepared to say had fled.
For a moment, neither of us said anything, and then I found my voice.