Healing Between Chords

Malory stared into her coffee cup, sunlight dancing across the surface through stained-glass windows. The echoes of her recent argument with her mother lingered—especially after being cut from her mother’s will. Still, Malory had her own hard-won life as a trauma therapist in downtown Flores. She checked the grandfather clock. 12:23. Should she go to work, or call in? Slumping at the counter, she weighed her options, then finally called out sick, requesting a few days’ leave. The apartment fell silent. Afternoon light painted rumpled blankets and used mugs—her half-hearted efforts at self-care. A wave of fatigue left her drifting between restless naps. As she tried to muster energy for even simple tasks, a sharp knock rattled the door.

Part of her wanted to ignore it, but the knock came again, more insistent. Malory, her hair in a messy bun and hazel eyes clouded with exhaustion, opened the door just wide enough to see Marshall—tall and broad-shouldered, his black hair tousled from the wind, calm dark eyes filled with concern. He carried grocery bags as Malory, in her oversized sweater, retreated wearily to the couch. Her fever-flushed cheeks, dark eye circles, and flyaway hair made her feel exposed. Marshall briskly put away groceries, started tea, and smiled at her collection of mugs. “How many cups to get a prize?” he teased, eliciting a tired chuckle. Sitting near Malory, steady and warm, he tried to coax her into opening up. Each casual touch—hand to hand, shoulder to shoulder—underscored their growing, unspoken bond. Just as Malory felt a fragile comfort settle between them, her phone buzzed with a message from her mother.

“Hope you’re happy with your choices. Don’t expect help or sympathy from me.”

Malory’s jaw clenched. She flipped her phone face-down, eyes burning with unshed tears. Marshall leaned closer. “Everything okay?”

She shook her head. “It’s just…my mom. She never misses a chance to remind me where we stand.” Marshall placed his hand gently over hers. Tension thickened; anger, sadness, and unspoken questions about loyalty and choosing your own path hovered between them. A hot tear slipped down Malory’s cheek as exhaustion and her mother’s rejection overwhelmed her. Marshall hovered, unsure if he should reach out or give space. Malory buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. Everything feels… heavy.”

Marshall quietly boiled water, whisked matcha, and handed Malory a steaming mug. “It’s not much, but…maybe this helps,” he offered, hands lingering around hers. In that small gesture, she found comfort, her breath evening as they sat quietly, space between them gentle and a little sad. “You don’t have to talk about it, but if you want to, I’m here,” Marshall said.

“It always feels like I’m disappointing her. Even when I’m struggling, it’s my fault.”

Marshall nodded. “My dad used to say I was wasting potential if I didn’t follow his exact plan. Sometimes, I think he still believes it.” A tired laugh escaped Malory, breaking the tension. Marshall grinned. “If collecting mugs were an Olympic sport, you’d medal.” She chuckled and leaned against him, comforted by his presence. As the heaviness lessened, Marshall grabbed the remote, a twinkle in his eye. “Movie? I bet I can guess your comfort watch.”

They laughed, choosing a silly comedy. Malory’s phone buzzed again—her mother’s message unanswered. Malory stared at it, then set it aside. Tonight, she’d just rest, cared for and unashamed. Snuggling into the couch as “Terminator 2” started, she grinned at Marshall’s mock amazement. “Everyone needs a protector when they’re sick. You’d make a good Schwarzenegger—minus the robot parts.” Marshall laughed. “I’ll be back—with more tea, probably.” For a while, the world’s weight faded, replaced by laughter and Marshall’s quiet promise to stay.

Malory’s head grew heavy as the movie played. When she drifted to sleep, Marshall carefully set aside her mug, tucked the blanket around her, then lingered—unwilling to leave her alone. He dimmed the room, took out his phone, and watched over her, promising silently to stay until she woke.

Sunlight crept across the room as Malory woke, clearer-headed and refueled. Marshall had left a note on the side table: “Didn’t want to wake you—you looked peaceful. Call or text if you need anything. I’ll check in tomorrow. –M”

A small smile warmed Malory. She wandered the room, sunlight dancing on dust motes. Her gaze landed on her late father’s guitar. She picked it up and fell into gentle chords, memories mingling grief and gratitude. A soft knock interrupted her reverie—Marshall again, checking in early. He noticed the guitar. “I didn’t know you played.” She shrugged, bashful. “It was my dad’s. I try.” He sat nearby. Malory, still shy, strummed tentative notes, music bridging the quiet between them. Marshall watched, quietly admiring. When she faltered, he smiled, “Doesn’t matter. It sounds good here.”

Her phone buzzed again—another message from her mother, sharper and colder. Malory’s anger sang hot, then suddenly dulled to numbness. For the first time, her mother’s words barely stung. She pressed the phone face-down and let Marshall provide wordless comfort. Some comfort needed no explanation.

A clinic call was interrupted: one of her patients was anxious about Malory’s absence. “Tell her I’m thinking of her,” Malory replied, weary but touched. Marshall nodded, quietly supportive. Then came a light knock: Mrs. Weller from next door, bearing stew. “Looks like you’ve got the best care already!” she quipped, eyeing the mugs and Malory’s visitors. Malory thanked her, grateful for the warmth and neighborly care.

After lunch, Malory reminisced about her dad’s music lessons—how mistakes were met with laughter and patience, unlike her mother’s rigid expectations. “He’d always say, ‘Even when you mess up, the music goes on.’ I think he meant life, too.” Marshall squeezed her hand. “I’d listen, as your dad did,” he said. Malory smiled, reassured. In that gentle quiet, she decided it was okay to try again—with someone patient by her side.

Dusk fell. Malory’s cough grew harsher. Marshall pressed cold medicine and tea into her hands, his insistence gentle but unwavering. Malory relented, grateful to be cared for. But another loud knock sounded—her niece, Tessa, barreled inside, backpack and all. “Aunt Mal! Mom dropped me off. Said you needed cheering up.” Tessa’s energy filled the room. She introduced herself to Marshall, gleeful at joining movie night. As the evening passed with laughter and classic films, Tessa’s presence eased Malory’s burdens.

After Tessa left, the apartment fell quiet. Restless, Malory played her father’s guitar, letting old melodies soothe her. Marshall watched from the doorway. “Couldn’t sleep either?” She shook her head. “Sometimes it’s easier to say how I feel with music.” Marshall’s voice was gentle. “It came through. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Dawn brought new light, Malory’s heaviness replaced by tentative peace. Marshall was in the kitchen, humming over pancakes. Mrs. Weller arrived with fruit; soon, Tessa bounced in to help set the table. Laughter, mismatched mugs, and easy conversation filled the kitchen. Malory brought out her father’s guitar, played a gentle tune—music weaving through her small, makeshift family. Marshall toasted to “new routines,” and Malory, her heart full, raised her mug in return. She still didn’t have all the answers. But in the golden morning, with laughter and music and the comfort of chosen family, she finally felt at home.

The phone buzzed in the other room—ignored, for now. Sunlight and connection carried the day forward, promising that, whatever came next, Malory wouldn’t face it alone.