She Was the Treasure All Along novel Chapter 966

After that night, the dynamic between Helena and Swain shifted into something effortless. It wasn't the kind of exhausting socializing where you had to scramble for topics; it was just the easy, comfortable rhythm of two friends hanging out.

Helena didn't hate it.

When she was alone in the studio, it felt like being stranded on a deserted island. Every wrong note bounced off the walls, mocking her. But when Swain was around, his presence acted like an acoustic sponge, soaking up all that sharp, anxious energy.

She could mess up, and he would just laugh and tell her it sounded great anyway, treating her like she was the only genius in the world. Surprisingly, it did wonders for her mental state during the day.

Even though the nights were still brutal—when the anxiety would rush back, drowning her until she spiraled into desperate, self-destructive habits just to cope.

"Are you sure you want my notes? I'm not distracting you?" Swain asked one afternoon.

Helena thought about it. "I actually really need the feedback. Stop just listening and tell me what you think."

Swain rubbed the back of his neck. "Alright, if you say so."

His understanding of music was entirely feral. He had never been to a conservatory, and he couldn't read a lick of sheet music, but he had a phenomenal ear.

"This part feels flat," he'd say bluntly, pointing at a section Helena had spent hours perfecting. "It sounds like someone else wrote it."

At first, Helena's pride stung, but after replaying the bars, she realized he was entirely right.

"So how would you fix it?"

Swain shrugged, looking sheepish. "I don't know how to write music." He sat next to her on the bench and mashed a few random, chaotic keys. "But I feel like... this part needs to sound more suffocating. Like, desperate."

Helena frowned. "That's a lot of emotion for one sequence."

Swain scrunched his face, struggling to translate the feeling into words. "You're scoring a movie about a guy walking through a desert, right? If you're walking until your feet are bleeding, your lips are cracked, and sand is whipping your face, your brain isn't thinking in perfect, neat melodies."

Helena stared at him, letting the words sink in. She turned back to the keys, playing the sequence again, this time channeling the grit and exhaustion he described. "You're right. You're completely right."

Swain's face broke into a massive grin.

***

A week later, late in the afternoon, the sun slanted through the studio's skylight, casting a warm golden glow over the grand piano.

Swain was up on a ladder in the corner, fixing a wall sconce that had been flickering for days. Helena sat at the piano, her sheet music covered in scribbles, her fingers slowly picking out a melody.

Swain would occasionally throw out a comment, and Helena would tweak the notes, but even when Swain said it sounded perfect, something still felt... off. It wasn't quite there.

Helena finished playing the final section and let her hands drop, blowing out a long breath.

Helena stood up from the piano bench, instantly shedding the relaxed, glowing aura she'd had just seconds before. Her posture went rigid. She picked up the envelope, murmured a polite "thank you," and said nothing else.

Swain checked his watch. "Shoot, I gotta run. I have a tech job across town." He slung his tool bag over his shoulder and paused at the door, grinning at Helena. "I'll come by tomorrow. Keep at it—that last part was seriously amazing."

Helena nodded, a soft smile lingering on her lips.

Once Swain's footsteps faded down the hall, the studio fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.

Helena stood by the piano, clutching the envelope, debating whether she should open it to look busy or just invent an excuse to leave. It had been a week since she last saw Morris, and the space between them felt like an icy chasm.

Morris walked slowly toward the piano, his eyes scanning the chaotic sheet music on the stand. He took in the furiously crossed-out measures, the aggressive pencil marks, and the shorthand notes scribbled in the margins.

"How is it coming along?" he asked, his voice low and smooth.

"It's fine," Helena lied.

"Where are you at with it?"

Helena pressed her lips together. She couldn't tell him she was stuck. Even though she and Swain had spent days brainstorming, the core of the piece was still missing.

Morris tapped a long finger against the edge of the music stand. "Play it for me."