We Will Rise: An Adrian's Undead Diary Novel (Lockey vs the Apocalypse Book 2) by Carl Meadows (best historical biographies txt) 📕

so at least one of them must have a strategic brain, but there is definitely a large group somewhere in town making a home base, and they have smaller groups that go scavenging. Eli has seen two other groups with people that weren’t in the mob we sent packing, which suggests that there are more than the twenty that chased the Becketts and the Ritchies into that house about five minutes before we rolled up.

We’ll have to keep an eye out for them, as they’re a bit of a wild card now when we’re house clearing. For the first time, it feels like we’re directly competing for resources against another local group. We’re clearly better armed, but that just means they might get sneaky. We can never afford to be complacent with the undead plague, but thinking humans have the potential to be far more dangerous. Especially vengeful ones.

For once though, we got somewhere in time to help strangers, and for that I am thankful. This feels like a huge win.

Tomorrow, I’m going to make Sarah play the piano for me and make good on her promise. I’m feeling good after this win today, so I’m in the mood for some music.

NOVEMBER 30th, 2010

WHITE CLOUDS

We’ve been really busy settling the newcomers for a couple of days and doing stuff around campus. Boring, everyday stuff, checking things, taking stock of stuff, blah blah boring blah. I never got my piano concerto from Sarah.

Today however, I did. We had a quiet hour in the afternoon, and I ambushed her. Just the two of us I said, as I just really wanted to hear her play.

She took me to the music department, which didn’t look like any bloody music department in any school I ever went to. In one room which looked like a little Victorian library, a grand piano stood in one corner next to a huge bay window, the wide sill scattered with cushions to create a little chill out spot, looking out over the school’s green fields.

I sat on the bay window and asked her what she was going to play. Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin? I mentioned those because they were the only three that I knew and told her so, not having a clue which one it would be if she started playing.

“No, I’ll play a modern one,” she laughed. “My mum passed in 2006, and this was released a couple of years earlier by an Italian composer and pianist named Ludovico Einaudi.”

I nodded like I’d heard of him. I hadn’t.

“Mum fell in love with it and would forever play it. When she died, I played it at her funeral.”

My mouth dropped at that. “That seems really… personal,” I said softly. “If it’s too hard, play something else.”

She shook her head with a little smile. “No, it’s the piece I always go to when I want to think of her. Whenever I play it, I feel connected to her, like she’s with me, her hands on mine, guiding them on the keys.”

That is some deep shit for an eighteen-year old woman to drop. I was already tearing up.

“I haven’t played it since… well… since everything.” She paused for a moment. “Since dad went too.” She sighed, gave me a heartbreakingly sad smile, and sat down at the keys. “Just sit and listen. I hope you like it.”

“What’s it called?”

“Novule Bianche,” she answered.

“Which translates to?”

“White Clouds.”

I took my place by the window, settled myself in, not knowing what to expect.

And then she started to play.

Music has an unquestionable power on the human soul. It can break hearts, evoke memories, call tears of joy, and bring hope. When you hear the right piece of music, you feel it. It speaks to you, as if the music was yours and yours alone.

This was Sarah’s tribute to her parents, her connection to them, and I felt every single note.

The music is breathtaking, a gentle waltz of notes that draws you in, and captivates your attention. Soft and harmonic, I found my eyes drifting to the window, the ghosts of memory rising to haunt me. Door number nine, the child under the stairs, and you, Freya, on that final day. Just those early notes lowered me into a deep well of remembered sorrow.

Then the tempo picked up, and somehow lifted me. I was no longer sad for the loss of you, but thankful for the time of knowing you.

And then Sarah’s fingers burned with a life of their own as the tempo and pitch rose, her slim fingers dancing elegantly, eyes closed as the music poured out of her and into the piano.

Freya, it was pure serenity.

Tranquil, haunting, effortless, and beautiful in its simplicity. The serenity of it carried me away, drifting into my own thoughts, desires, fears, and hopes, yet not allowing me to dwell on any of them too long. My life floated by me in all its misery and glory.

For those six minutes, the horror, the death, the tragedy, the thoughts of hardships to come, the people I feared to lose; all of them floated by like the white clouds of the composition’s title. It was acceptance of all the pain that had brought me to this moment, and for what yet lay before me, it gave me hope.

For those six, serene minutes, nothing could hurt me, or cause me pain. There was no guilt, no heartache, and no anger, just those six minutes of freedom as my heart and soul were uncaged to just… be. All that existed was the music.

If told I had just six minutes to live, and asked what I wanted for my final moments, it would be to close my eyes, lie back, and let me leave life without fear or guilt, by having this song played to me. Never has my heart felt so… free.

It was pure rapture.

As Sarah drew to the close, I pulled my eyes from the window and looked over at her, seeing the tracks of tears leaking from