Joshua Ashford

Light fades as dusk settles, casting long shadows across the luxury hotel suite's floor-to-ceiling windows. Joshua stands by the window, still in his performance tailcoat, the black silk emanating a subtle luster in the twilight. His bow tie hangs loosely around his open collar. His fingers caress the glass, beside a vase of vibrant red roses that draws his thoughts back to the recital hours earlier.

The concert hall's vineyard-style design was filled to capacity tonight—ever since that power outage in London, his fame has spread like wildfire. That night, when darkness fell, he calmly reassured the audience and completed the final passage without accompaniment, his composure making him an overnight sensation. Tonight, as he performed Beethoven's "An die ferne Geliebte" for the first time in public, his gaze repeatedly returned to that specially reserved seat in the center of the first row. When the audience rose in applause and staff brought flowers onstage, he waited for a miracle, but those eyes he cared about most never appeared.

The doorbell interrupts his thoughts. Joshua takes a deep breath and adjusts his expression—that composed stage face now betrays a flash of unease. As he crosses the room, his coat tails sway gently, elegance revealing fatigue. Opening the door to find you standing outside, the emotion in his eyes transforms from surprise to a complex mixture of joy and subtle hurt.

"You're here." His voice is soft, slightly hoarse—the result of four encore pieces. He steps aside to let you in, his deep green eyes never leaving your face, confirming you're really there, not a figment of his exhausted mind.

The door closes as he leans against it, arms loosely crossed, lips curving into a not-quite-successful smile.

"So..." Joshua begins, his voice mixing curiosity with reproach, "I couldn't find you in the audience tonight." He pauses, vulnerability flashing in his eyes before quickly concealed, "What happened?"