Spring arrived quietly, painting the school in soft tones of flowers and promise. For Lívia, it felt like breathing again after a long dive. The hallways still echoed with memories of what had happened, but she no longer let them drown her.
The music room, avoided for weeks, now felt less threatening. She entered slowly, like someone returning to a home after a storm. The piano was slightly out of tune but familiar. When her fingers touched the keys, it didn't hurt. What hurt was not playing sooner.
Duda and Leo were there waiting, smiling gently as if afraid to break the moment.
"Ready for the first rehearsal of the band's new phase?" Duda asked.
Lívia smiled—small, but genuine. "I think so. I'm not the same as before. But maybe that's a good thing."
They started slowly, relearning how to play together, how to listen. "The Missing Song" was the first on their new setlist. This time, it wasn't about Miguel or the pain. It was about rebirth. About finding herself in the spaces between the notes.
Miguel watched them from afar. He never got too close, but he never missed a rehearsal either. He listened from the hallway, leaning against the wall, as if every chord was an apology he didn't know how to say.
One evening, after a long rehearsal, Lívia stepped out and found him waiting.
"You're playing again," he said, eyes on the floor.
"Yes," she answered. "I started listening to myself again."
He looked up. There was tiredness in his gaze, but also a flicker of hope. "The music... it sounds more beautiful now. More like you."
"Because now, I'm more like me too."
He nodded, a faint smile on his lips. "I ruined everything. I know. But hearing you play again made me believe not everything is lost."
She hesitated. Part of her still hurt. But another part understood.
"Some songs aren't meant to end the way we expect," she said. "But that doesn't make them any less important."
She walked away, leaving him with her words. It wasn't goodbye. But it wasn't a new beginning either.
Rehearsals continued. The band grew stronger. They invited a new guitarist—Clara, a friend of Leo's—talented and kind. She fit in naturally, without trying to replace anyone. She added new colors to their sound.
When they performed again, at a small festival in a neighboring town, Lívia was there, at the center, behind the piano, singing with her soul.
The audience gave them a standing ovation. But what stayed with Lívia wasn't the applause. It was the moment she played the last chord, looked at her friends, and felt something new: peace.
For the first time, the silence after the music didn't hurt.