Ebony Castle

With each click, the X-ray images on the screen changed. Daniel, who had been leaning in close to the screen by the middle, withdrew his hand from the mouse and asked curiously, “Your fingers have loosened up much more than expected. Did something happen?”

“…Ah.”

Thankfully, the examination room was darker than the living room. Doha, feeling the heat rise at the back of his neck, kept his eyes fixed on the screen.

Daniel didn’t seem to expect a real answer, continuing seriously as he pointed at the screen. “This one’s from a month ago, and this is the one we just took. See the differences here and here, Eden? Your bones have straightened out normally.”

“…Yes, I think I can see it.”

“With this much improvement, it seems safe to say that the paralysis caused by Neim has been fully resolved.”

It was the first time Doha had heard such a definitive statement from a doctor. He hesitated, glancing down at his fingers, which gleamed faintly under the dim light. After returning from Scotland, he had been able to move all ten fingers with effort, but they still felt weak and stiff compared to before. Hearing that the paralysis was gone gave him an ominous sense, as though it meant there would be no further improvement.

“Of course, the paralysis is only gone. The muscles that were lost will still need to be built up through continuous rehabilitation. In fact, that’s the more important part,” Daniel added.

“And, of course, you’ll need to keep going to Scotland regularly. As you know, there’s no concept of a full cure for Neim. If you stop the treatment, the paralysis will return right away.”

It sounded as if there was a specialized rare disease clinic Doha attended in Scotland. After closing the screen, Daniel stood up from behind the desk.

“Shall we head back to the living room?”

“Yes.”

Doha got up from his seat. Daniel opened the door for him and let him pass, glancing into the living room ahead before letting out a small sound of surprise.

“Yes…?”

Doha, who had been focused on the feeling in his fingers, belatedly looked up. Even without the lights on, Daniel’s neat living room was bright. Beyond the large glass windows on the far side, partially lowered white blinds revealed snow gently falling outside.

“For once, the weather forecast was accurate,” Daniel said as he walked over and pulled the string to lift the blinds. The windows were designed to offer a direct view of a Japanese-style garden, allowing them to fully appreciate the natural scenery. Snow was silently falling within the unique frame of the window, as if it were a painting.

Doha sat down on a nearby sofa and gazed at the garden for a while. Snowflakes drifted down from the white, cloudy sky, their forms made visible against the high walls, drawing swaying curves before settling on the grass below.

“About two weeks ago, London had its first snow, but you weren’t here, were you, Eden?” Daniel asked, sitting on the adjacent sofa and watching the snow alongside him.

“I think it was a day or two before you returned from Scotland. Did it snow there?”

“No.”

“Then this must be your first snow of the winter.”

It felt like it had been years since Doha last saw snow. Perhaps because he had hardly gone outside last winter, the snow-covered garden looked unfamiliar to him.

Daniel got up and walked to the kitchen. Doha heard the refrigerator open and the clear clinking of glass. When he looked at the tray Daniel brought back, he blinked in surprise.

“Here.”

Daniel placed a tall flute glass in front of Doha. Holding a bottle of champagne, he expertly popped the cork, and the bubbles fizzed merrily.

“Since it’s the doctor giving you the drink, try not to have too much,” Daniel said, filling Doha’s glass halfway.

Doha watched the golden liquid swirl in the glass and asked, “Thank you for the drink, but is this in celebration of the snow?”

Daniel smiled. “That’s part of it, but it’s really to celebrate the improvement in your hands.”

“…Thank you.”

The champagne had a subtle aroma, reminiscent of apple pie, and the liquid felt dry and smooth on the palate. Doha had a feeling that if he looked up the label, it would have a price far beyond his imagination.

The thin glass quickly warmed to the touch of his lips. Doha set the glass down and spoke.

“Dr. Hunt. If the paralysis is gone, is it okay for me to start practicing again this week?”

Daniel, who had been admiring the view of the garden, immediately turned his attention to Doha.

“Practice? …Ah.”

His gaze shifted to the grand piano in the corner. Doha calmly placed his hand in Daniel’s outstretched one.

“Hmm.”

Daniel examined Doha’s thumb carefully, furrowing his brows.

“As long as you don’t overdo it, it should be fine. In fact, noting any discomfort you feel while practicing would help us adjust your rehabilitation program. Would you like to play a little while you’re here today?”

Doha instinctively pulled his hand away, shaking his head.

“I have a piano at home. I can also rent a practice room.”

“I understand.”

Fortunately, Daniel didn’t push the issue.

“Now that I think about it, the piano hasn’t been tuned in a long time, so it might be uncomfortable for you. But you haven’t forgotten your promise to play for me, have you? I’ll have it tuned soon.”

Doha avoided Daniel’s expectant gaze, turning his eyes back to the window. His fingers, fresh from rehabilitation, still throbbed. Although Daniel was a doctor with whom he could talk about anything—even intimate matters—Doha didn’t want to play the piano in front of him.

The piano Daniel envisioned was probably from Eden Yeon’s prime, during the competition recordings. Doha wasn’t confident he could even play the pieces from the “Classical Masterpieces 1000” playlist Daniel had been listening to.

“I’ll lend you an umbrella,” Daniel said, walking Doha to the front door. Doha accepted the umbrella Daniel handed him from the stand by the door.

“Thank you. I’ll return it later.”

“You can keep it. It’ll snow often from now on, so you should carry it with you.”

When the door opened, the cold winter wind rushed in. The snow had picked up, and a pointed layer had begun to build on the small bonsai pines in the garden. Shivering, Daniel seemed to remember something and said, “You still have some time before your trip to Scotland, right? I hope the snow doesn’t delay your flight.”

“…I hope so.”

As Doha stepped into the garden, the cold wind chilled his champagne-warmed cheeks. Winter had fully settled in. He stood still for a moment, listening to the snow fall on the open umbrella.

***

That night, back at home, Doha dragged the piano stool over to his wardrobe. He climbed onto the stool and opened the top compartment, the only storage space in his flat.

“…Ugh.”

A thick layer of dust scattered. Doha suppressed a sneeze, peering inside under the dim light of the ceiling lamp.

Inside were scores of sheet music he couldn’t bring himself to throw away when he moved. Brushing off the dust with his hand, he pulled out the worn book on top with both hands.

The sheet music Doha brought from Korea was old. As he wiped off the dust from the publisher’s logo and turned the tattered cover, he saw his name written in neat, childlike letters: “Yeon Doha.” Even back then, it seemed he wasn’t particularly fond of his name, as the surname was written much larger, while the given name was tiny and timidly squeezed in.

Doha sat down on the stool, his fingers pressing over the letters as if to hide them. Flipping through the worn pages, he saw that the musical notes were often obscured by messy pencil marks. Some markings were from his teachers at the time, while others were added by him later.

There were pieces he had performed in competitions, ones he particularly liked or disliked, and pieces where he had to rely on the pedal for every measure because he couldn’t reach the octave. Spreading his fingers across the faded sheet music, Doha noticed that his pinky and thumb had grown much longer than when he was a child.

Back then, someone had told him that if his fingers didn’t grow longer, he wouldn’t be able to become a pianist. Every day, he’d pull on his fingers to make them longer—in the bus on the way home from lessons, under his desk at school—believing that it would help him reach octaves more easily.

Doha set the sheet music aside and climbed back onto the stool. He began pulling out stacks of dusty sheets, moving them down a little at a time. There were also individual scores that he had purchased at great expense after coming to London. Notes from his mentor were still visible alongside the folded corners of the pages, making it easier to find sections.

He had once thought about what piece he would play first if he ever got to play the piano again. Perhaps one of his core repertoire pieces by Beethoven or Rachmaninoff. Or maybe a piece by Brahms or Mozart, which he enjoyed. Realistically, though, he’d probably have to start with scales, Hanon exercises, or etudes for a while.

The hands he had imagined back then didn’t need rehabilitation or practice. They were in their prime condition. Doha spread his hands slowly in the air over the black wood of the piano, noting how his fingertips trembled slightly, perhaps from the effort of moving even the lightweight sheet music.

He moved the stool back to the piano, avoiding the piles of sheet music scattered across the floor and bed. Through a small gap in the curtains, he could see the messy, snow-covered alley outside. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a car horn blared loudly, as if there had been an accident.

Doha wiped the dust from his fingers on his clothes and lifted the lid of the piano. Dust that had been dulling the black wood floated into the air, revealing the white keys underneath.

“……”

Doha stared at the keys without blinking for a long time. His chest felt tight as if his lungs were stiffening.

He slowly reached out his dry hand, forward and down. His weak and soft ring finger brushed lightly against a black key. It felt firm and smooth.

Doha inhaled sharply and, as if jumping off a ledge, pressed down.

The key, pressed by the flat of his ring finger, produced a hoarse sound—a faint, shaky tone.

Just then, a man’s cough from the flat next door came through the thin walls. There was also some muffled noise, perhaps from a TV.

Although he knew the man wasn’t reacting to his playing, Doha quickly pulled his hand back from the keys as if burned. His heart was beating uncomfortably fast.

His bottom hurt from pressing into the stool. Doha staggered to his feet and closed the piano lid.

The stale air of the flat, thick with the dust from the sheet music and the warmth from the old heater, filled the room. Doha collapsed onto the sheet music-covered bed. He pulled his knees up and pressed his body against the wall, closing his eyes.

All sorts of sounds rushed into his hypersensitive ears at once—the man’s loud laughter from watching TV, his phlegmy cough, and the distant wail of an ambulance siren coming closer and then fading away.

***

Snow had fallen again overnight, covering the narrow alley outside Doha’s flat in white. As he stepped out, Doha checked that the door was locked and pulled his coat tighter.

The nearby practice room he had searched for at dawn was one stop away by subway. It seemed more suited for band practice than classical piano. The lazy website, likely using a default template, featured low-quality images of a drum set and keyboard.

The practice room didn’t pick up the phone until 9:15, even though its listed opening time had passed.

“I’m on my way now.”

Loud music and the sound of running footsteps could be heard in the background. Just as Doha was about to hang up, the woman added, as if it had just occurred to her:

“A grand piano?”

Doha struggled to lift his sluggish tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“Okay. Book me that room.”

The woman responded indifferently and hung up.

Even though rush hour had already passed, the subway station was still crowded with people in thick coats. The melted snow and black grime on their shoe soles spread across the floor as they descended the stairs. Doha skirted around a yellow “Caution: Slippery” sign and tapped his card at the turnstile.

Last night, the first thing that came to his mind had been the practice rooms near school. Because so many music students used them, the facilities were decent, and the pianos were well-maintained. Since the practice rooms on campus were always fully booked, the ones nearby were just as busy.

A little farther away was the studio where Julian had practiced recently. It was spacious and had many rooms, and it would probably be empty at this time of day. Even when he was in school, Doha wasn’t the most social person, and now, with many of his acquaintances having left London or the music scene altogether, the chances of running into someone he knew were slim.

Still, Doha walked through a dark alley that seemed to never get sunlight, even in the middle of the day, after getting off the subway. The run-down first floor of the building he arrived at had a sign that read “MUSIC SHOP” next to a saxophone illustration. A red electric guitar was displayed in the window.

A woman, lazily wandering inside the shop, glanced at Doha through the glass and opened the door.

“Come in.”

“Thanks.”

It didn’t seem like a place where a proper piano would be found. The counter where the woman had been sitting was messy with snack wrappers, and the air inside the shop was stuffy, filled with the smell of instant noodles, like a student break room. Loud music played from speakers in the corner.

The woman walked around the clutter of secondhand keyboards and tangled electric cords and opened a door at the back of the store.

“The second floor. Watch your step on the stairs.”

Doha followed her up a narrow staircase. Each open door in the hallway revealed music stands and drum sets. There was no one around.

The woman stopped at the end of the hallway and turned around.

“This is the grand room… You’ll need to pay upfront.”

“Oh, right.”

Doha snapped back to attention and pulled some cash from his wallet.

“I’ll rent it for two hours.”

The woman checked the amount without a word and stuffed the pound notes into her pocket. From her opposite pocket, she pulled out a key to unlock the door.

“Thank you.”

“There’s a clock inside, so just come out when your time’s up.”

“Alright.”

Doha stepped over the threshold of the door she had opened for him. He heard her footsteps fade as she descended the stairs, and the door closed behind him.

It took Doha a while to find the light switch. After fumbling along the wall for several meters, he finally turned on the room’s light.

The room revealed under the dim lighting was larger than expected. A few student chairs were lined up next to a small, shaded window, and in the center stood a grand piano with its lid closed. Doha set down his music bag and paused beside the piano.

It was an old Yamaha. Aside from some chipped polish on the corners, the piano’s exterior wasn’t in terrible condition. The stool wasn’t an adjustable leather one but a long, wooden bench.

Doha wiped the dust off the piano lid with his sleeve and lifted the cover with both hands.

“…Ugh!”

His arms trembled as he inserted the short prop to hold up the lid. Inside, the piano was just as he expected—covered in a thick layer of dust.

Doha sat on the stool and opened the keyboard cover. Staring down at the densely packed white keys, he suddenly felt overwhelmed.

Had the piano always been such a large instrument? It wasn’t even a concert grand, but the size seemed daunting, and the tightly arranged keys looked unfamiliar.

The stool legs scraped against the worn carpet. Doha stood up and stepped back a few paces.

“……”

It felt like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room. Instinctively, he crossed the room, but the window wouldn’t open, perhaps because the latch was jammed. He shook the rusty latch a few times but gave up and leaned his cheek against the cold wall.

When the woman from downstairs came up and knocked on the door, Doha was sitting absentmindedly on a chair by the window. She pushed open the door, glanced at Doha sitting away from the piano, and said curtly, “Your two hours are up. Why haven’t you come out?”

“…I’m sorry.”

His unused music bag brushed against his foot. Doha stood, hesitated, and then said, “If there are no other reservations, I’d like to use it for one more hour.”

“It’s paid in advance.”

“Yes.”

After handing over the money, the woman shut the door and disappeared without a word. Somewhere nearby, a snare drum had been playing, indicating that another practice room was being used.

Doha put his wallet back in his bag and crossed the room again, circling the piano before returning to the window.

Why had he bothered to bring the music sheets at all? The pieces he had practiced countless times were impossible to forget, no matter how much he wanted to. He imagined himself years from now, still remembering every note. He had once pictured himself growing old that way—expanding his repertoire, continuing his performance and recording career as a pianist until his hair turned white.

Staring at the bleak view outside the small window, Doha realized that day would never come.

How much longer could he live like this? Going back and forth between London and Scotland, intruding like a thorn into the life of someone who didn’t want him.

“……”

Doha slowly stood up. He walked back to the piano and sat down on the hard stool.

The pieces he had mentally prepared, the main repertoire he had selected for a reunion between pianist and piano—pieces with a level of difficulty that suited a soloist and a competition winner. Yet Doha didn’t open or play any of their sheet music.

Instead, his hands settled on the keys, and he began playing a simple, repetitive melody that had come to mind. It was a piece he hadn’t touched in years, tangled with awkward memories.

Chopin’s Prelude No. 4 in E minor.

There was nothing difficult about the melody or the composition. When he had first read the sheet music in Korea, he had mastered it in just a few days, like all the other pieces he learned then. But when he first played it in front of his mentor in London, the man had stood up from his seat and closed the piano lid with his own hands.

“This piece doesn’t seem right for you.”

Though his mentor had smiled softly, he had meant it. Doha hadn’t played the piece in front of him or on stage since.

Maintaining a slow tempo, Doha closed his eyes halfway through. If his mentor had been listening, he might have covered his ears. However bad Doha’s playing had been that day, it was certainly better than today’s, layered with messy self-pity.

His unsteady fingers failed to control the dynamics and stumbled over the wrong notes. The old piano was out of tune, and its resonance was dull. The sound was weak, reflecting Doha’s current self. The music seemed to crumble slowly, like something old and rusted, collapsing over time.

***

Before Doha could properly adjust the rehabilitation equipment, Daniel stopped him by gently grabbing his hand. Carefully inspecting Doha’s fingers, Daniel peeled off the silicone support.

“Mr. Eden.”

“…Yes?”

“I believe I told you not to overdo your practice.”

It was the first time Daniel had shown such a stern face. Doha looked down, a little taken aback. He had experienced some pain while doing rehab on his own yesterday, but he had assumed it was temporary.

Daniel lightly bent Doha’s index finger again without warning.

“…Ugh.”

Doha barely stifled a sound, but his shaky breathing gave it away. Sighing deeply, Daniel released his hand.

“I saw you three days ago, and your hand’s already in this state?”

“But I didn’t practice that much…”

“Mr. Eden.”

Daniel cut him off.

“I may have downplayed it, but you really can’t do this. It’ll only delay your rehabilitation progress.”

“…Yes.”

Meeting Doha’s eyes, Daniel’s voice softened slightly.

“I understand that you’re feeling impatient.”

“No, I was thoughtless. From now on, I’ll stick to the time limits you set.”

Doha’s quick reply finally softened Daniel’s expression.

“Please sit comfortably. I’ll give you some ointment, and we can resume rehabilitation tomorrow or the day after, once the swelling goes down. And of course, no practicing until then.”

“Yes.”

The rehabilitation equipment Doha had just started using was folded and put away in its case. He stared at the inside of the case until its lid closed, reluctant to stop. Coming here had been a waste of time if he wasn’t going to do his rehab after all.

“So.”

Daniel sat back up, his face returning to its usual friendly demeanor.

“Where are you practicing these days? I believe you mentioned having a piano at home?”

“…My place isn’t soundproof, so I’ve been going around different practice rooms. I haven’t found one with a piano I like nearby yet.”

“I see. Ah, if you’re not in a rush, how about staying for a cup of tea? It’s cold outside.”

Doha hesitated, having just packed his bag, but sat down again. He had only taken off his coat a few minutes ago, after all.

“Are you sure it’s alright?”

“Of course. I actually have something to ask you, too.”

Daniel soon returned from the kitchen with a tea tray. The rich aroma of black tea rose from the white cups. After taking a slow sip, Daniel spoke.

“Mr. Eden, do you have any plans for Christmas week?”

“…Is it that time already?”

No wonder carols had been playing more frequently on the streets and in shops. He had figured they were just getting into the holiday spirit early, as some places did in November. A glance at Daniel’s schedule confirmed that Christmas was about ten days away.

“This time of year always seems to pass quickly. Are you heading to Scotland soon? When do you return to London?”

“This time… the 23rd.”

“The day after that is Christmas Eve.”

“That’s true.”

Doha was relieved that it wouldn’t clash with any important dates. Though Tristan Locke didn’t seem like the type to celebrate holidays like Christmas, Doha didn’t want to impose on his time during such a period.

Looking up, Doha noticed that Daniel’s gaze lingered on his face.

“Eden, your family isn’t in London right now, is that right?”

“Ah… yes.”

“And you’re not planning to visit Korea either?”

“Yes.”

“That must be disappointing. I’ll be visiting my family and staying for a while, so from the 22nd until January 2nd, I won’t be available for appointments. I wanted to let you know in advance.”

Doha mentally calculated the dates and nodded.

“Understood. Just let me know when you return.”

While it was a little disappointing not being able to see Daniel for a check-up right after arriving in London on the 23rd, Doha figured he could dedicate the end of the year to practice. After all, he wasn’t particularly fond of the chaotic atmosphere around Christmas. As long as the rehearsal rooms didn’t close for the holidays, he’d be fine.

Since resuming his training, Doha’s once-empty days now felt full. For him, this routine was more comfortable and familiar. The more he packed his schedule with practice, the more time spent eating and sleeping felt wasteful, and he particularly resented the time it would take to travel back and forth to Scotland. During the three days he’d spend at the mansion without a piano, he wouldn’t be able to practice at all, and flying back would take up nearly an entire day. Just thinking about the wasted time made him feel suffocated.

As if reading his thoughts, Daniel murmured suddenly.

“It’s unfortunate that Eden’s Neim opponent lives so far away.”

“…….”

“If Tristan lived in London, your treatments and practice would be much more convenient, don’t you think? You’d probably regain your old skills even faster.”

Doha blinked up at him, and Daniel gave a sheepish smile.

“Sometimes I just feel bad. You’ve become my favorite pianist these days.”

“…I’m not the only pianist you know, right?”

“Of course not. I can name at least three more. Though they’re all dead.”

Daniel laughed, and Doha placed his teacup down with a chuckle.

What could he honestly say in front of Tristan’s confidant? Even if Daniel paid close attention to him as a doctor, the content of their conversations would likely reach Tristan.

“It’s fine. I’ll just focus on practicing more during my time in London.”

Once he said it out loud, Doha realized that it was true. There wasn’t any other viable solution.

If Tristan Locke had lived in London, Doha might not have been able to receive his help as easily. Back when Doha was a student in the Jean foundation, Tristan had been a noble and a tycoon, someone far too high up to even cross paths with. Even if they lived in the same city, Tristan wasn’t someone who lived in the same world as Doha.

Perhaps that’s why Doha accepted the idea of having to transfer planes and cars several times just to meet him. Crossing barren winter wastelands and traveling deep into remote forests to find him—Tristan Locke was the kind of person who fit that sort of mythical journey. At some point, Doha stopped being able to picture Tristan in a city. He couldn’t imagine Tristan apart from the mansion nestled in the forest named after paradise.

***

The sound of a ringing phone pulled Doha from his light sleep. He fumbled for his phone, wrinkled on the bed.

“…Ah…”

He blinked his tired eyes. Hazel Myers’ name was on the screen. This was the first time she had called him while he was in London.

Doha hurriedly put the phone to his ear, not having the time to clear his throat.

“Yes, Hazel?”

“Eden.”

The voice of the mansion’s housekeeper was as neat as always. Doha started to get up but recoiled at the cold air. The heater must have turned off again; the flat was filled with a chilly air, his breath visible as white fog.

“Were you sleeping?”

“No, I woke up earlier and just dozed off for a bit.”

Doha curled his toes and quickly crossed the room to turn on the old heater. The sky outside the curtains was a gloomy gray. On overcast days like this, it was hard to tell the time just by looking at the sky, but with the streets still relatively empty, it seemed like it was still morning.

“What’s the matter?”

The line was quiet. Doha felt as though Hazel was hesitating, which was unusual for her.

“As I mentioned before, would it be alright if I asked you a personal favor?”

“Sorry?”

He recalled their conversation in the car. Sitting back down on the bed, Doha responded.

“Of course. Do you need something from London?”

“It’s not so much a necessity… I recently reconnected with my younger sibling, and they insist on sending me a homemade Christmas cake. Since we can’t reveal this location, I can’t have it delivered here. Would it be possible for you to…?”

It seemed Jean’s plan to give Hazel time off for Christmas had fallen through.

“Yes, just have it sent to me, and I’ll bring it along. It’s no trouble at all.”

“Thank you. I’ll give my sibling your address then.”

“By the way…”

The weekend was approaching, and Doha was scheduled to leave for Scotland on Monday morning.

“Do you think the cake will spoil?”

“Oh, it’s a Christmas cake, so it should last for months. My bigger concern is the slow holiday shipping. Even if they send it today, it might not arrive on time. But if that happens, I can receive it in January.”

Receiving a Christmas cake after Christmas seemed odd, even to Doha.

“Where does your sibling live? Are they in London?”

“Yes. I only just found out myself. They’ve been living here for over six months.”

“In that case, wouldn’t it be better if I picked it up directly? I happen to be free today.”

That was a relief. The longer Doha sat idly at home, the more anxious he felt, and the piano constantly caught his eye. If Daniel hadn’t strictly forbidden both rehabilitation and practice until tomorrow, he’d be at the rehearsal room by now.

“Oh… Wouldn’t that be too much trouble for you?”

“It’s no trouble. But it would have to be today, as tomorrow I’ll be unavailable.”

“Let me check with my sibling and get back to you. May I have your address in the meantime?”

“Sure.”

After giving his address, Doha paced the small flat while waiting for the follow-up call. Just as he finished washing his face, his phone rang again. He answered with damp hands.

“Eden, would you be able to go to Bankside?”

“Yes, it’s close.”

“There’s a coffee shop next to Bankside Pier. Could you meet my sibling there at around two-thirty?”

“How about three?”

“I’ll let them know. Thank you, Eden.”

Doha shook his head, even though he knew she couldn’t see him. Cold water droplets fell from his hair onto his shoulders.

“It’s no problem.”

“Asking a guest of the CEO for a favor like this is quite improper, but… my sibling was very upset about not being able to meet me this Christmas and insisted on sending the cake.”

“It’s really no big deal. I’ll be back in no time.”

“Then I’ll see you when you arrive on Monday.”

After hanging up, Doha left the room. The old heater was still creaking and groaning with a

, and the small, single-person flat remained frigid and cold.

***

Bankside was a familiar place for Doha. Not far from here was the concert hall that housed the London Philharmonic and had recently been the venue for Julian’s collaborative concert. Early in his studies abroad, whenever Doha felt stifled, he would cross to the south bank of the Thames to attend classical concerts or recitals, and then wander aimlessly along the river’s curve all the way to London Bridge. Looking back, it seemed like those stifling feelings were akin to homesickness. He had thought he adapted quickly to living abroad, but maybe a part of him hadn’t.

By the time Doha arrived at Bankside Pier, it was a little after one. He grabbed a quick lunch at a nearby sandwich shop and strolled slowly along the riverside, which he hadn’t seen in a while.

Perhaps because the snow had melted and the weather had warmed up a bit, the walking path was quite busy. People were out walking their dogs, and there were plenty of office workers in coats who seemed to be on their lunch breaks. To his left, the towering chimney of the Tate Modern came into view.