A/N: Hello again, its been a while since I last published something here. And even longer since I last wrote for this couple and fandom. So I don't know how much of a fandom I'm coming back too.
I was previously here under a different name and had several pieces of fiction (some pieces were Begin Again, Things My Heart Used To Know, Dollar Signs and Crimson Hair) for this fandom uploaded here, in case you were wondering why and email alert for this ended up in your inbox. Though I have since deleted them from here, they can still be found online, just over on my account on Archive of our Own under the pen-name DreamingInWonderland (there's a link in my author profile, though the dots and slashes do need to be entered), where this story is also being uploaded.
This story was loosely inspired by this OTP prompt - Person A and Person B were lovers in a past life; B composed a song that they only shared with A and never published. A does not remember ever having a past life until they are walking down the street and hear a homeless person humming /their/ song - and the song 'Symphony' by Clean Bandit featuring Zara Larsson, from which this story also takes its title.
Finally, I was so nervous about posting fiction for this fandom again and over on twitter, ChelsieSouloftheAbbey gave me a bit of a confidence boost so thank you so much for that.
London, June 1866
The flames flickered lazily in the fireplace, casting long shadows on the walls. Though it was the early hours of the morning, the sole occupant of the room had found no relief in sleep. Sleep had been as elusive as the last vestiges of a dream in the moment before waking. He leaned back in the chair as he poured himself another glass of wine, before he returned to contemplation of the flames.
The waiting was the worst part. He had heard from Mrs Reynolds that the doctor had been summoned and the outlook was pretty bleak. Not that it surprised him at all. The past few weeks had seen a dramatic upturn in the amount of cholera cases throughout the city. All had been localised within the East End of London, though a few cases had crept into the more affluent areas of the city. This was mostly through the servants that had family in the East End and had paid visits to them recently. Many houses of his peers had put a stop to those visits until the epidemic was over. Even if the order had come too late to save Eliza, it would hopefully prevent further deaths.
He looked over at the grand piano that sat in the corner of the room. Mere days ago, he and Eliza had sat on that stool, where he had played her the first part of his most recent composition. It had been partially inspired by her, and he smiled as he recalled the pretty blush that had appeared on her cheeks when he'd told her that. Charles couldn't believe that fate could be that cruel. That within days she would go from the picture of health to her deathbed.
The soft ticking of the clock, marked the time that passed, though he couldn't tell you how long he had been staring into the flames. Or even what time it was. He looked up as the door opened and the doctor walked in, his head low. He had seen enough doctors in his life to know exactly what had happened without any words being exchanged. Even if he hadn't, the fact that Mrs Reynolds had followed the doctor, carrying a bolt of black cloth would have told him all he needed to know.
While Mrs Reynolds hung the cloth over the mirror, Charles quietly thanked the doctor for his services and promised to send payment within the week. Before too long he was left alone once again, with only his thoughts to occupy his mind. He stood up and walked over to the piano. He lifted up the top of the stool and pulled out the sheaf of papers that contained the notes for his most recent composition. Without a second thought, he removed the top sheet, before he threw the rest into the fire, and let the flames destroy any remnants of the piece. There was only one person that he wanted to hear it, and if she was no longer in the realm of the living then there was no point in the piece even existing. He picked up the top sheet and stared at the charcoal drawing. It was the only likeness of Eliza that he possessed and until he could join her in the eternal paradise, it would have to do.
He stood in the doorway, hat in his hands as the funeral procession prepared to set off. Though tradition dictated that the family paid for the funeral, Charles had insisted that he be allowed to pay for it. He knew of the circumstances of Eliza's family, how they had been living hand to mouth, and they needed not only Eliza's pay, but that of her brother who worked down at the docks. He knew it had caused a bit of talk in the servants quarters, after all, it was highly improbably that a master of the house would pay for the funeral of one of his servants. Though those that knew of his generosity, were unsurprised by this turn of events, and admired the young man all the more for it. He knew it had made him more desirable to some of the young ladies in his social set, but they held no interest for him.
He bowed his head reverently, as the coach carrying the coffin passed the main doorway of his house. He glanced over at his manservant, with a swift nod, the pair joined the end of the procession as it moved towards the church of St George in the East, and Eliza's final resting place.
I'm not entirely sure when the next chapter will be uploaded as I don't have that much time to write at the moment, but I promise it won't be too long of a wait for you all. I hope that you'll leave a review and let me know what you thought of it.