Author's Note: Hi everyone! :) At the suggestion of a lovely reviewer, icanhearthedrums, I've gone ahead and edited the chapter titles so that you have a clue what time frame/dimension you're in, and also which chapters go together. One of my primary concerns with this story is that it may come across as too scattered or choppy to be truly enjoyed, and while the style of this story will not change, hopefully this will make it a bit more cohesive for those who may be having a bit of trouble! :)
One day, while she brews a pot of coffee, she realizes that she is happy. The realization draws her away from the well-worn kettle and forces her into a heavy oak chair a few feet away. It is one that Erik has carved to match their modest little dining table, at her request, and recalling that detail only adds to Christine's feelings of immense satisfaction.
It has been just over a year since her father died, and she considers herself lucky to feel so settled in what seems like such a short time. As a child who had only ever known the sweet kisses of her doting father, and the smooth coins they collected together when he roamed the country to play the violin, she had decided adamantly that a life without her papa would be no life at all. She would weather away without the gentle cries of the bow and strings to coax her to sleep at night. She would die of grief, of a broken heart, of a life without her papa.
But she is a woman now, and life has pleasantly surprised her. She finds that she enjoys looking after the home, fixing meals for herself and Erik, pressing his clothes, taking trips into the city when the desire for a new dress or a box of pastries arises. There is a comfort to be found in mundane affairs, in the reliability that routine boasts. Together, they have healed her.
Her husband makes her happy too, and the thought flushes her pale cheeks. He is a hardworking man and a wonderful teacher and Christine feels utterly foolish when she remembers how much he terrified her during their first weeks together. He has proven himself to be kind and gentle and wears such an expression of gratitude whenever she starches his shirts or fixes his favorite breakfast or brings back a bar of chocolate for him from her trips into the city that it nearly breaks her heart. She wonders about him, about what he was like as a boy, about why he wears the mask; wonders what he thinks about when he sits down at the piano and plays a song that ends in her wiping away tears she hardly even realizes she had cried. But she is hesitant to ask. She is perfectly happy, and she does not want to spoil that happiness.
The kettle whistles, and Christine stands up to answer it.