“A father is the one friend upon whom we can always rely. In the hour of need, when all else fails, we remember him upon whose knees we sat when children, and who soothed our sorrows; and even though he may be unable to assist us, his mere presence serves to comfort and strengthen us.” —Émile Gaboriau
Juneteenth, celebrated on June 19, marks an important moment in American history.
It commemorates the day in 1865 when news of emancipation finally reached enslaved people in Galveston, Texas—more than two years after the Emancipation Proclamation had been issued.
It is a day to remember the resilience, courage, and perseverance of those who endured unimaginable hardships while holding onto hope for a better future. It is also a reminder that freedom, justice, and equality are ideals worth striving for in every generation.
As a writer, I am often drawn to stories about ordinary people facing extraordinary circumstances. History teaches us that behind every date on a calendar are real lives, real struggles, and real triumphs. Juneteenth invites us to pause, reflect, learn, and honor those stories.
Today, I encourage you to take a moment to learn something new about this important chapter in history, support Black voices and authors, or simply reflect on the value of freedom and the responsibilities that come with it.
May we continue to build a future shaped by understanding, compassion, and respect for one another.
Happy Juneteenth.
One of the most enjoyable parts of writing a novel is naming the characters.
A name is often the very first gift a writer gives a character. Long before a story unfolds, before a single line of dialogue is spoken, a name begins to shape who that person will become in the reader’s imagination.
Sometimes a name appears instantly, as if the character has introduced themselves. Other times, finding the right name can take days—or even weeks. I’ve changed character names more than once during the writing process when I realized a particular name simply didn’t fit the person I was trying to create.
When readers ask me where my character names come from, the answer is usually a mix of inspiration, instinct, and a little bit of mystery.
Nika has always been strong, independent, and determined. I wanted a name that felt modern, energetic, and slightly unconventional. Nika is the kind of person who charges headfirst into a problem rather than waiting for someone else to solve it.
As the heroine of the Upon A Time series, she needed a name that reflected both resilience and warmth—a woman capable of rebuilding an old house, standing up to impossible circumstances, and following her heart across time itself.
One of the most enjoyable parts of writing a novel is naming the characters.
A name is often the very first gift a writer gives a character. Long before a story unfolds, before a single line of dialogue is spoken, a name begins to shape who that person will become in the reader’s imagination.
Sometimes a name appears instantly, as if the character has introduced themselves. Other times, finding the right name can take days—or even weeks. I’ve changed character names more than once during the writing process when I realized a particular name simply didn’t fit the person I was trying to create.
When readers ask me where my character names come from, the answer is usually a mix of inspiration, instinct, and a little bit of mystery.
Eli’s name came naturally.
I wanted something timeless, a name that would feel equally at home in the early twentieth century and today. Elijah carries a quiet strength and dignity that suited his character perfectly. Shortened to Eli, it becomes more approachable and personal—just as he is beneath his reserved exterior.
The name felt right from the beginning, and I never seriously considered changing it.
Abby has always possessed a creative spirit and a loyal heart. As an artist, she sees the world differently from those around her. I wanted her name to feel familiar, approachable, and kind.
Abby is the type of friend everyone hopes to have—the one who remains loyal through difficult times and never loses her sense of compassion.
Alex is one of those names that feels strong without being intimidating. It carries a sense of confidence and reliability, which fits his role perfectly.
Despite his imposing appearance, Alex has always been more complex than he first appears. His name reflects that balance between strength and humanity.
Verochka is perhaps one of my favorite names in the series.
Derived from the Russian name Vera, it carries a sense of elegance and old-world charm. The moment I chose it, I knew it suited her perfectly. There is something graceful and memorable about the name—qualities that mirror Verochka herself.
The funny thing about writing is that sometimes it feels as though the characters choose their own names rather than the other way around.
A writer may spend hours browsing baby-name websites, history books, or old family records, only to discover that the perfect name was waiting all along.
Once the right name appears, the character suddenly feels real.
Their voice becomes clearer. Their personality begins to emerge. Their story starts to take shape.
For me, that moment is always a little magical.
After all, every great story begins with a name.
What about you? Have you ever wondered how your favorite fictional characters got their names? I’d love to hear which literary names have stayed with you over the years.
Over the years, I’ve discovered that naming a character is far more than simply choosing something that sounds pleasant. A name becomes part of a character’s identity. It shapes how we imagine them, how they move through the world, and sometimes even how they see themselves.
Eventually, it’s impossible to separate the character from the name. Nika could never be anyone else. Eli is simply Eli. Abby, Alex, and Verochka have become so real to me that imagining them with different names feels almost impossible.
Perhaps that’s why readers often remember certain characters long after they’ve finished a book. The right name becomes attached to a personality, a journey, a heartbreak, or a triumph. Together, they create someone who feels real enough to step off the page and into our lives.
Speaking of names, today’s excerpt comes from No Other Time, where you’ll meet Alex and Abby—two characters whose names seemed destined for them from the very beginning.
I hope you enjoy this small glimpse into their story.
EXCERPT
Alex slammed the car door. Now what? Frustration that kept him up and running has ran its curse, replaced by brutal fear. Where was Abby? Where did she disappear to? And why so suddenly?
Last night, when he finally reached the Rostoff mansion, he was hit over the head with the shocking news that Abby had left.
The older Mrs. Rostoff, drawn and pale, showed him the note.
Sorry, but I must leave at once. Thank you for your hospitality and kindness.
Always yours,
Abigail
He was familiar with Abby’s handwriting, so there was no doubt that the note was written by her. Alex’s heart squeezed.
Dammit, she’s run away.
But why? What prompted her to take such a drastic step?
Ushered inside, Alex found himself seated at the kitchen table, surrounded by bewildered and worried members of the Rostoff clan. They all looked at him, like he was the answer to their prayers. Freaking out was not an option, but Alex was close. Very close. Abby. Alone. Somewhere. In the dark. God, was she scared? Hurt? Conjured out of fear, the pictures in his mind ran gamut from dread to terrifying horror. It was a nightmare. His hands shook. His heart ached. Alex gritted his teeth before he lost it.
Peter Rostoff was the only one who kept his cool during all this, making numerous phone calls. At last, he put his cell phone down and announced that there was no apparent reason for concern. Abby was not among the injured. Or worse. Thank God. So, that was the good news. The bad— she was nowhere to be found. Had she left under her own volition, or under duress? That was the million-dollar question. The head of the Rostoff’s clan suggested a call to the police. After some deliberation, it was discarded. As Peter, the logical son, pointed out, they had no proof of foul play. Abby was of legal age, and she left a note. So, the unanimous decision was to wait.
Dammit all to hell and back.
His composure was frayed, his famous self-control all but shattered.
Holding onto his sanity by sheer stubbornness, Alex refused the offer to stay in Rostoff’s mansion, and opted to head home. To lick his wounds in solitude, and wait. And hope beyond all hope that Abby was alive, and well, and will make contact soon.
Please, God, watch over her. Wherever she is.
There are thousands of books in the world. Some entertain us for a few hours before fading gently from memory. Others stay with us forever. We return to them again and again, not because we have forgotten the story, but because opening those pages feels like stepping into a familiar place. Like coming home.
But why does that happen? Why do certain books become part of us while others simply pass through our lives?
The books that feel like home are rarely just stories. They become experiences. We remember where we were when we first read them. What we were feeling. Who we were at that particular moment in our lives. Years later, opening those same pages can feel like reopening a cherished memory. The story remains the same.
But we have changed. And somehow, the book welcomes us back anyway.
One reason certain books feel like home is because of the characters. The best fictional characters become more than names on a page. We celebrate their victories. We mourn their losses. We worry about them.
We miss them when the story ends. Over time, they begin to feel like old friends.
And just as we enjoy reconnecting with people we care about, readers often return to beloved books simply to spend time with familiar characters once again. There is comfort in that familiarity.
Books can also create places that linger in our hearts long after we finish reading. A small seaside town, a historic mansion, a quiet library, a bustling city, a forgotten cottage hidden among the trees.
Some fictional settings become so vivid that they feel almost real. We know the streets and recognize the rooms. We can imagine exactly how the air smells or how the light falls through the windows. These places become emotional landmarks within our memories. And every time we return, they are waiting for us.
Many readers discover their “home books” during important periods of their lives. A difficult season. A major transition. A time of uncertainty. A moment when comfort was needed most. The story becomes connected to the emotional support it provided. Years later, revisiting that book feels reassuring because it reminds us that we survived those challenges. The book becomes more than entertainment.
It becomes a companion.
Nostalgia plays a powerful role in our relationship with books. Sometimes we return to stories not because we want to know what happens next, but because we want to remember how we felt when we first experienced them. A favorite book can transport us instantly: to childhood, to college years, to a particular summer,
to a version of ourselves we had almost forgotten.
Very few things possess that kind of emotional power. Books do.
Perhaps the deepest reason certain books feel like home is because they understand us. They speak to emotions we struggle to express ourselves. They remind us that we are not alone in our hopes, fears, dreams, heartbreaks, and questions. When readers feel truly seen by a story, an emotional bond forms. And that bond often lasts a lifetime.
As writers, we hope readers will enjoy our stories. But secretly, many of us hope for something even greater. We hope a book becomes meaningful. We hope readers find comfort, inspiration, wonder, or connection within its pages. We hope that years later, a reader might return to that story and feel the same warmth they felt the first time. Because there is perhaps no greater compliment for a writer than hearing:
“This book feels like home to me.”
The books that feel like home are rarely the most perfect books. They are simply the ones that touched us at exactly the right moment. They welcomed us when we needed them. They stayed with us when the final page ended. And they continue waiting patiently on the shelf, ready to be opened once more. Just like home itself.
For me, the books that feel like home are The Shell Seekers by Rosamunde Pilcher and The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough.
I first read The Shell Seekers in English in 1994, and from the very first pages, I fell in love with its warmth, family relationships, and unforgettable characters. Over the years, I have returned to it many times, and each reading feels like a reunion with old friends.
The Thorn Birds has an even longer history in my life. I first read it in Russian translation in 1989 while still living in Azerbaijan. I was captivated by its sweeping story, memorable characters, and emotional depth. Decades later, it remains just as powerful and moving as it was the first time I opened its pages.
Both books have earned a permanent place on my bookshelves. No matter how many new stories I discover, I find myself returning to them year after year. Their pages hold memories not only of the stories themselves, but also of the different stages of my own life. Every rereading feels both familiar and new—a reminder of why I fell in love with books in the first place.
Perhaps that is the true sign of a book that feels like home: no matter how much time passes, it is always waiting for you, ready to welcome you back.
When most people think about selling books, they think of large online retailers, bookstores, and publishing platforms. Few people think of Etsy. To be honest, I didn’t at first either. Like many independent authors, I was searching for new ways to connect directly with readers and share my work beyond traditional channels. What I discovered was something much more meaningful than another sales platform. I discovered a community.
When I opened my Etsy bookshop, I had no grand business plan. No large audience. No marketing team. No guarantees. Just a collection of books, journals, and creative projects I believed in. Like many indie authors, I started with equal parts excitement and uncertainty. Would anyone find my shop? Would anyone buy my books? Would my listings ever appear in search results? The truth is that every new shop owner asks those same questions. And at first, the process can feel overwhelming. There are covers to design, descriptions to write, categories to choose, keywords to research, images to create, and endless details to learn. But little by little, the shop began taking shape.
One of the biggest lessons I learned is that building an Etsy shop is not a single event. It is a process. Every listing teaches something. Every product teaches something. Every visitor teaches something. Over time, I learned how important presentation is. Book covers matter. Mockups matter. Descriptions matter.
Even small details can help readers discover books they might otherwise never find.
Like writing itself, building an Etsy shop requires patience. Very rarely does success happen overnight.
As my shop grew, I realized I wasn’t only selling books. I was creating a creative space. Alongside my novels, I began adding journals, planners, reading logs, gratitude journals, calligraphy notebooks, and other products designed to inspire creativity and reflection. What I loved most was seeing how different readers connected with different parts of the shop. Some arrived searching for fiction. Others discovered journals. Some simply enjoyed browsing through creative products designed for readers, writers, dreamers, and lifelong learners.
That variety made the experience even more rewarding.
There is something deeply personal about running a small creative business. Every sale feels meaningful. Every review feels personal. And every customer represents a real person who chose to support your work.
Independent creators often spend months or years developing products before anyone ever sees them. So when that first order arrives, it feels extraordinary. Not because of the sale itself. But because it represents connection. Someone found your work. Someone believed it was worth purchasing. Someone decided to bring a piece of your creativity into their life.
That feeling never completely disappears.
I still remember the excitement of receiving my first Etsy sale. After spending countless hours creating listings, designing images, researching keywords, and building the shop, seeing that notification felt surreal. It was a small milestone in the larger journey. But it was also proof that the dream was becoming real. Every independent creator remembers that first sale. Not because of the money. Because of what it represents.
Validation. Encouragement. Possibility.
What I appreciate most about Etsy is its focus on creators. The platform was built around people making things. Artists. Designers. Writers. Craftspeople. Creative entrepreneurs.
That creative spirit creates a different atmosphere than many larger marketplaces. It feels more personal. More human. More connected to the people behind the products. And as an author, I value that connection immensely.
Building an Etsy shop is not something you finish. It continues evolving. New books are added, new ideas appear, new readers discover your work. Each listing becomes another opportunity to connect with someone who might enjoy what you create. And perhaps that is my favorite part of the entire experience.
Not the sales, or the algorithms, or the statistics–The people. Because at the heart of every bookshop—whether physical or digital—are readers. And every reader who discovers your work becomes part of the story.
If you’re an author thinking about opening an Etsy shop, my advice is simple: Start. You do not need to have everything figured out. You do not need hundreds of products. You do not need a perfect strategy. Begin with what you have, learn as you go, improve little by little.
Most importantly, remember that every successful shop started exactly where you are now—with a single idea and the courage to share it with the world. And sometimes, that is all you need.
What started as a simple idea has become one of the most rewarding parts of my author journey—and I can’t wait to see where it leads next.
Writing one book changes you. Writing a series becomes part of your life. When readers see a completed series lined neatly on a shelf, they see finished stories, beautiful covers, and beloved characters. But behind every series exists something much more personal: years of imagination, emotional investment, growth, and quiet persistence.
Because writing a series is not simply creating multiple books. It is living alongside the same world for years.
One of the strangest things about writing a series is how real the characters begin to feel over time. At first, they are ideas. Names. Fragments of personality. But somewhere along the way, they become familiar.
Writers begin to know how those characters would react before the scene is even written. Their fears, habits, humor, heartbreaks, and relationships start feeling almost instinctive. And eventually, spending time with them becomes part of everyday life. That is why finishing a series can feel surprisingly emotional. You are not simply ending a story. You are saying goodbye to people who lived inside your imagination for years.
A series also changes the way a writer sees storytelling itself. With standalone novels, everything must fit into one emotional journey. But a series allows something deeper: slow emotional growth, layered relationships, family histories, long-term consequences, and characters evolving over time. Worlds become richer.
Connections become deeper. Small details planted early may not fully bloom until books later.
And for readers, that creates a sense of immersion difficult to replicate in a single novel. They are not simply reading a story anymore. They are returning home to a familiar world.
One of the most beautiful parts of writing a series is watching readers emotionally attach themselves to characters across multiple books. Readers remember moments. Quotes. Relationships. Heartbreaks.
Tiny details the writer worried nobody would notice. Sometimes readers love characters so deeply they begin discussing them as though they are real people. And honestly, writers understand exactly why.
Because in many ways, they are real to us too.
Writing later books in a series can also feel emotionally complicated. There is pressure: to stay consistent, to honor earlier books, to deepen the story without losing its heart, and to meet readers’ expectations while still surprising them. Sometimes writers fear disappointing the readers who have become emotionally invested. And sometimes, continuing a beloved story feels both exciting and terrifying at the same time. Because once readers fall in love with a fictional world, they carry emotional expectations into every new installment.
Writers feel that responsibility deeply.
One of my favorite aspects of writing series fiction is allowing characters to grow slowly and realistically over time. People change. Relationships evolve. Memories shape future choices. And in long-running stories, characters begin carrying emotional history with them the same way real people do. That emotional continuity creates something incredibly special. Readers do not simply witness dramatic events. They grow alongside the characters themselves.
Both the Upon A Time series and the Rostoff Family Saga have become deeply personal journeys for me as a writer. Over time, these characters stopped feeling like temporary fictional creations. Their stories expanded.
Their histories deepened. New generations appeared. Connections unfolded in unexpected ways. And perhaps that is the true magic of writing a series: The world continues living long after the first book ends.
Readers fall in love with series because they offer something increasingly rare in modern life: Time. Time to know characters deeply. Time to emotionally invest. Time to return to familiar worlds again and again.
There is comfort in revisiting beloved fictional places and people who feel emotionally familiar. A good series becomes more than entertainment. It becomes part of a reader’s emotional landscape.
Writing a book series feels a little like living between worlds. Part of the writer remains grounded in ordinary life. And part of them always stays inside the story. Thinking about future scenes, remembering old dialogue,
wondering what happens next even after closing the laptop for the night.
It is exhausting sometimes. Overwhelming sometimes. Beautiful almost always.
And despite the challenges, most series writers continue because they cannot quite let those worlds go. Perhaps because somewhere along the way, those fictional worlds begin shaping us too.
CHAPTER ONE
Miami, Florida 2013
Peter stopped the Jeep, blinked a couple of times, then cursed under his breath. Damn, he barely noticed that he arrived. His body ached. His mind completely shot. Yet he somehow managed to park the Jeep in front of his house. He remained inside the car, drained and frozen.
Totally battered.
Totally wrung out.
Totally disgusted.
Like he lost a few rounds to a heavyweight champion.
The long flight from California to Florida left him jittery and deflated at the same time. And if that wasn’t enough, a major headache, compliments of his compounded stress, announced its grand appearance.
Fuckin-fantastic.
This trip turned into a doozy. With a capital D. A funeral, not by a long shot his favorite pastime, always made him edgy and ill at ease. But the funeral of his grandmother… To call it a nerve-wracking event—an understatement of the freaking century. And not because he loved the woman or harbored a morsel of regret for her demise. Never a hypocrite, Peter didn’t even pretend to grieve.
The doctors were amazed you hung on so long. Eighteen years, a first in San Francisco medical history. Dr. Frank’s partner wants to write a paper on your case and publish it.
Peter pressed the button to lower his side window not sure if he should look up at the cloudless blue sky or down at the gray dirt along his cobblestone drive. He shook his head because none of it mattered, he was going to say what was in his heart. He raised his hand in a toast, pretending he held his grandmother’s favorite crystal glass filled with cold vodka.
“Here’s to you, Grandmother, your Royal Highness Elizabeth, you were too damned evil to die, but now you’ll forever be remembered because of it.”
He flung his hand out the window as if smashing the fragile piece onto the drive, relieved as the hatred he’d lived with for so many years seeped from his soul.
His thoughts turned back to the service. Meeting his sister after seven years of separation proved to be the hardest thing he had ever done.
Dammit all to hell and back.
He scanned the front of the house, then dragged his gaze toward the flowerbeds. And winced. Almost smothered by weeds. Bastards grew up like maniacs. Tall and dense, they seemed to grin maliciously, daring him. With more resignation than heat Peter swore under his breath. He needed to take a couple of days off work. If for nothing else but to revive his plants. His small garden looked downright pitiful. When he purchased this house two years ago, he started the renovations by planting the flower garden first. Zolotoe Selo, his grandmother’s estate where he spent his teenage years, boasted amazing rose gardens. The only thing he missed about that chilling, sinister place—the flowers. Thankfully, they flourished, despite Elizabeth’s long illness. Why his bitch of a grandmother refused to let them die, presented a mystery. She managed to destroy everything else around her—lives, hopes, relationships. Why did she spare the flowers?
And why do you care?
After he left Zolotoe Selo almost eighteen years ago, Peter severed all his ties with Elizabeth Rostoff and everything connected to her. The woman was toxic. Evil. She caused his family and him enough grief to last through eternity. If not for her funeral—or rather his father’s insistence on Peter’s presence—he would never have returned to that place. He knew it would be hard, but not how hard.
The hell with it. He survived. Somehow.
Peter winced as he looked at his struggling flowers. They didn’t deserve to die. His love and respect for all growing things remained deep and unshakable, unlike his feelings toward humans that underwent the major negative adjustment.
Not surprising, considering all the scam he dealt with during his ten years as an FBI agent. Some cases haunted him in his sleep long after they closed. What people can do to one another! Horrible. Unbelievable. Incomprehensible.
Torture, mutilation, molestation, to name a few. And all in the name of profit.
Admit it, Rostoff, money rules the Universe. Always has, always will.
He pursed his lips, frowned.
Becoming jaded?
Probably. Burnout? God, he really hoped not. Otherwise, he’d have to kiss the job he loved good-bye.
Peter dragged himself out of the car, groaning with each movement, then trudged toward the modest one-story bungalow he called home. He regretted not accepting his father’s offer of the private jet after the long hours on the plane crammed in the middle seat. Given his six-four height, he found it almost impossible to find a comfortable fit for his legs in a seat built for the people of average height. But, hell, he deliberately separated himself from the Rostoff & Co, and everything associatedwith his family wealth. Accepting the convinience of the corporate jet seemed somehow hypocritical. He had no desire whatsoever to be linked to the famous name or the company. To rely on the amenities it provided, such as comfort and luxury of a private jet? Just wrong.
And his family discount at the Rostoff’s stores? Laughable. Why would he need a discount at the world-famous jewelry chain? Peter shook his head, then stole a quick glance at the magnificent diamond he wore on his pinkie. His father’s long ago birthday present. The only item from his previous life he refused to part with.
That, and the memories.
Resigned, Peter walked to the door, unlocked it, and stepped inside.
The tiny foyer opened to the compact living room furnished with a second-hand Italian leather sofa, a smoked glass coffee table, and an oversized Lay-Z-Boy chair, along with the housewarming present from Drew and his wife Claire, his FBI colleagues, and friends.
The one true luxury Peter allowed himself—the Berber carpet. Plush and thick, its long silky fibers the color of burnished gold, sold him the first he laid his eyes on it. His credit card gasped with shock, but what the hell? Unable to resist, he procced with the purchase. Wasn’t he entitled to a single indulgence?
Removing the loafers and socks, Peter sunk his bare feet into the softness, curled his toes, and almost moaned with pleasure.
Home at last.
Self-publishing is often presented as freedom. Freedom to create. Freedom to publish what you love.
Freedom to build your own career on your own terms. And while all of that is true, there is another side to self-publishing people rarely discuss openly: The emotional side.
Because behind every independently published book is usually one person carrying the weight of an entire dream alone.
Many people imagine the hardest part is writing the manuscript. But often, finishing the book is only the first emotional mountain. After that comes:
editing, formatting, cover design, marketing, social media, algorithms, sales, reviews, advertising,
and the constant uncertainty of wondering whether anyone will even find your work.
For indie authors, creativity and vulnerability become deeply intertwined. You are not only creating art. You are placing pieces of yourself into the world and hoping someone connects with them. That can be terrifying.
Every writer knows this feeling: What if nobody reads it?
Or perhaps even harder: What if they do?
Publishing a book means allowing strangers access to your imagination, emotions, memories, and vulnerabilities. Even fictional stories often contain pieces of the writer hidden beneath the surface. Readers may never realize how personal certain scenes truly are. But the writer knows.
And that makes self-publishing emotionally exposing in ways many people do not fully understand.
Self-publishing can also feel surprisingly lonely. Many indie authors work quietly from home, spending months or years building stories in isolation while the outside world continues moving normally around them. There are no publishing teams cheering at every step. No large marketing departments. No guarantees.
Only persistence. Some days feel magical and inspiring. Other days feel filled with doubt.
And yet writers continue showing up anyway — page after page, chapter after chapter — because something inside them refuses to stop creating.
One of the hardest emotional realities of self-publishing is learning not to attach your worth to numbers. Sales fluctuate. Algorithms change. Posts disappear unnoticed. Books you poured your heart into may struggle quietly for months before finding readers. And sometimes, a single kind message from a reader means more than any sales chart ever could. Because at the end of the day, writers are not truly chasing algorithms.
They are searching for connection.
For proof that their stories reached another human heart.
Readers may never fully realize how deeply their support affects independent authors. A review. A comment. A shared post.
A message saying, “Your story stayed with me.”
Those small moments carry enormous emotional weight. They remind writers that the long nights, uncertainty, and vulnerability were worth it. Because stories are meant to be shared. And every reader becomes part of that journey.
But there is another emotional truth about self-publishing that deserves attention too: The joy.
The indescribable feeling of holding your finished book for the first time. Seeing your cover come to life. Receiving your first sale. Watching a stranger connect emotionally with characters who once existed only inside your imagination. Those moments feel almost surreal. Not because of fame or success. But because something deeply personal became real.
Despite the fear, exhaustion, uncertainty, and vulnerability, writers continue writing because stories matter.
Stories help people feel seen. They create comfort, escape, healing, hope, and connection.
Sometimes they even change lives quietly in ways nobody fully sees. And perhaps that is why self-publishing is ultimately an act of courage. Because every indie author chooses to believe that their voice matters enough to be heard. Even when the outcome is uncertain. And honestly? That may be one of the bravest things a person can do.
CHAPTER ONE
San Francisco, California 1995
The Rostoff household was in an uproar. The official cause – nothing less than the upcoming celebration of Peter’s eighteenth birthday. The real reason, a family reunion of sorts. After five long years Dmitry Rostoff was finally coming home. To the States, to his family estate in California, Zolotoe Selo.
Frenzied anticipation buzzed through the formidable estate including all the staff.
Only Elizabeth remained calm and seemed unaffected. She went through each day as usual, without any interruption in her schedule, as normal as you please.
Ivan, the one servant closer to Elizabeth than any other member of the staff, took no notice of any changes in her behavior. After Peter announced that Dmitry accepted his invitation and promised to fly in for his birthday, Her Grace nodded and calmly ordered her son’s rooms prepared immediately. That’s it. No emotions, no objections, no reaction whatsoever.
God only knew what was really happening inside her heart. Or her head.
Ivan long ago gave up any attempt to solve the great puzzle of Elizabeth Rostoff.
He feared her, yet remained completely in awe from the moment he began to work for the Rostoffs. And foolishly and helplessly in love. Even after so many years.
Even when Elizabeth’s father-in-law and her husband were still alive, Ivan never doubted the true master of the household.
Her Grace, a domineering force, a power to reckon with, Ivan loved her to distraction. He fantasized about Elizabeth every night. For more years than he remembered.
Was he obsessed with her? Probably.
And she knew it. Oh, she knew, all right! And used it. Constantly. Ruthlessly.
Sometimes he hated her. And dreamed of revenge. Other times he ached for her, wept for her, called for her from the depth of his soul.
But never once for the many years of his employment, did he question her decisions or her orders. Therefore, he remained indispensable to her with his blind obedience which he preferred to call loyalty. Whatever his Mistress wished, he hurried to execute. Always.
And so, per Elizabeth’s order, Dmitry’s rooms were immediately scrubbed from top to bottom, and aired. All the furniture gleamed and smelled subtly of lemon and wax. The old grandfather clock ticked seconds away, its pendulum lazily swinging, awaiting its master.
Anticipation hung in the air like a rain cloud, thick and heavy.
We may forget plot details over time. We may forget character names, settings, or even entire scenes. But we never forget how a story made us feel. That is the power of emotional fiction.
Certain books stay with us not because they are loud or dramatic, but because they touch something deeply human inside us — longing, hope, grief, love, nostalgia, loneliness, healing. Readers do not simply want stories.
They want connection.
The most unforgettable stories are often the ones that feel emotionally honest. Not perfect. Not polished.
But true.
Readers connect to characters who struggle, make mistakes, lose people they love, carry regrets, and continue searching for meaning despite uncertainty. Because real life feels that way too. When fiction reflects genuine emotion, readers recognize pieces of themselves within the story. And suddenly, the story becomes personal.
Readers often believe they are choosing books based on genre: romance, historical fiction, fantasy, mystery,
science fiction. But underneath every genre lies emotion.
A romance succeeds because readers feel longing.
A mystery succeeds because readers feel tension and curiosity.
A fantasy succeeds because readers feel wonder and hope.
Emotion is what transforms a story from entertaining to unforgettable. It is the emotional experience readers carry long after the final page.
One of the most beautiful things about fiction is its ability to make people feel less alone. Sometimes readers discover characters experiencing emotions they themselves have struggled to explain: grief, fear, heartbreak,
nostalgia, uncertainty, the feeling of not belonging, the longing for something just out of reach.
And suddenly, there is comfort in realizing someone else understands. Even if that someone is fictional. Stories remind us that our emotions are shared by others across time, distance, and experience.
That connection can be deeply healing.
Many emotional stories contain a sense of longing. Not only romantic longing — but longing for another time, another version of ourselves, another chance, another life we can almost imagine but never fully reach. That emotional ache resonates because it reflects something universal. We all carry memories. We all wonder about roads not taken. We all revisit moments we wish we could relive or rewrite.
Perhaps that is why emotionally driven stories stay with readers so powerfully. They mirror the quiet emotions we carry privately every day.
Readers fall in love with emotional fiction because emotional characters feel alive. We remember them as though they were real people. We worry about them. We miss them after the story ends. Sometimes we return to certain books simply to spend time with those characters again. That emotional attachment is one of the most magical parts of storytelling.
A fictional world becomes meaningful because the emotions inside it feel genuine.
As a writer, I have always been drawn to stories rooted in emotion, memory, longing, and human connection. Whether through family sagas like New Dawn, dreamlike romances such as Rhapsody in Dreams, or time travel stories like ‘Til Time Do Us Part, I am most interested in the emotional journeys characters experience beneath the surface of the plot itself. Because for me, the stories that matter most are never simply about what happens. They are about what the characters feel while it happens. And perhaps that is why readers continue searching for emotional fiction generation after generation. Not merely to escape reality.
But to feel something real within it.
CHAPTER ONE
Providence, Rhode Island 2013
Spring finally arrived in New England, fashionably late as a true lady. Grumbling, precocious March eventually gave up, succumbing to a fragile and tender April, which in turn bowed out to a bold and brazen May. Its sun-kissed embrace reached the petite coastal state of Rhode Island, chasing off the last remnants of winter.
Majestic trees surrounding Brown University campus slowly came alive with color, welcoming another season in their long, dignified lives. Here and there, flowers flirted with sunlight, pulsing sinuously in rhythm with the breeze. Nature awoke from a long, frozen sleep, ravenous for new colors and sounds.
Natasha loved spring the best, especially late spring. It was her absolute most favorite time of the year—the time of new beginnings, new hopes. But today daunting thoughts disturbed her too much to enjoy the beautiful weather. She barely noticed the sunshine or incessant chirping of the birds, despite the fact she stood by the open window looking outside for the past half hour.
Today was the day she had waited seventeen and a half years for. Oh, how often she dreamed of this day. Prayed for it. Her imagination created thousands of different scenarios, and every one of them forever etched into her memory. She lived for, longed for, this moment of truth and retribution for seventeen and a half years.
The day of reckoning arrived, and Natasha realized she was not only far from ready for it but failed to convince herself she wanted retribution. Fear wove its way through her. The sticky web of lies and deceptions surrounding her whole life suddenly swept away, and she gripped that new freedom with both hands. Gloriously, maddeningly free.
She was dizzy and a bit disoriented with her newfound freedom to defend herself, to tell her side of the story and to finally—finally—come out from the darkness. But did she have a right to do it? What purpose would it serve now? Doubts bombarded her, nagging at her conscience. Justice? Or self-affirmation? Did it matter?
A gentle breeze unfurled her hair, transforming the neat bob into a riot of curls haloed around her face. Natasha ignored it. Memories, brutally clear and real, assaulted her, momentarily short-circuiting all her senses and pushing them to the surface with the force of an explosion.
Words…
Smells…
Sounds…
Colors…
Everything swirled inside her like a macabre dance. She didn’t try to fight this assault. She welcomed it, deliberately saturating her mind and her soul with pain and hurt.
And anger.
Her anger was always one of her strongest defenses. It kept her sane, forcing her to fight, to endure, to move—one painful step at the time, one hour, one day, one year.
Seventeen years and six months, she recalled bitterly. Almost eternity.
During the brutally long and lonely seventeen years, she lived for this day. And damn it, she deserved the opportunity to stop hiding in the shadows and come into the light.
Her goal was almost within reach, but now doubts ambushed her. Like pieces of shrapnel, they sliced through Natasha’s anger and hurt, ripping to shreds layers of defenses and knocking to hell and back the walls of composure she so painstakingly and methodically built during all those years.
If only it was all about her and her alone. But not this time.
Natasha walked to her desk where several newspapers lay spread open on its surface, their headlines announcing the death of Elizabeth Rostoff, multimillionaire, and matriarch of jewelry empire Rostoff & Co. She ignored the written words, looking instead at the pictures of the Rostoff family: two dark-haired men, father and son, both tall and ridiculously gorgeous even by Hollywood standards, and a stunning young woman with sharp Slavic cheekbones and a long platinum-colored braid. Her unique elongated eyes were the darkest shade of gray, almost pewter or, as Natasha always thought, the color of the rainy sky.
Natasha shut her eyes, letting pain fill her to the brim.
Katia. Her little girl, her princess. A grown woman now. Ekaterina Rostoff, a famous artist, a celebrity. She still remembered her milky baby smell, her fluffy mop of hair, and her adorable toothless grin. Katia, her baby, her daughter.
God, how she will hate her! How all of them will hate her…
Natasha sighed, wiped a single tear that managed to slip past her control, and took one last look at the pictures.
Two men flanking Katia portrayed the picture of an unerringly calm facade with a hint of an arrogance.
So much alike.
She lovingly touched the photo.
And so different…
“I love you,” she whispered. “All of you. I’ve hurt you once and will undoubtedly hurt you again. I don’t want to, but I have no choice. Forgive me.”
With a last glance at the newspapers, Natasha straightened her spine, effortlessly banished all emotions, tucking them into the deep corner of her soul. Seventeen years of practice made her a master of that skill.
With a final deep, calming breath, she pushed the button on the intercom, connecting her to the secretary of The Department of Slavic Studies.
“Yes, Professor?”
“Nancy, please connect me with the Special Agent Rostoff, Miami FBI.”
Nancy’s voice gave a little catch on the surname. “Uh…Rostoff?”
“That’s right. Peter Rostoff.”
“Sure, one moment.”
Calm and in control again, Natasha mentally prepared herself for the first battle. She waited a long time, and by God, she intended to be strong and prepared. She glanced at the headlines. Elizabeth Rostoff. Matriarch, entrepreneur, one of the richest women on the planet.
Sadistic bitch. Tyrant. Blackmailer.
You figured you could break me? You expected to live forever? Well, guess again, Your Grace. And may you rot in hell.
The strong beat of her heart pleased and reassured her yet made her wonder. How was it possible for something shattered time and time again to have such an unyielding will to function? A pure miracle.
“Professor, Special Agent Rostoff on line two.” Nancy’s cheerful chirp over the intercom broke the charged silence.
For one heartbeat, she closed her eyes and braced herself.
Finally, Natasha picked up the phone.
“Zdravstvui, Petya.”
Some houses stay with us forever. Not because of their architecture or age, but because they seem to hold something invisible within their walls — memory, atmosphere, emotion, perhaps even echoes of the people who once lived there. There is a reason old homes appear so often in literature.
They feel alive.
A modern building may be beautiful, but historic homes carry something deeper: history layered quietly into every staircase, hallway, window, and forgotten room. They remind us that places remember.
Perhaps it begins with imagination.
When we walk through an old home, we instinctively wonder: Who lived here? Who loved here?
What secrets were hidden behind closed doors? What stories unfolded beneath these ceilings long before we arrived?
Old homes invite curiosity in a way newer places rarely do. Their worn floors, fading wallpaper, antique mirrors, and hidden corners create the feeling that time itself still lingers there. And for writers, that atmosphere is irresistible. Because houses are never just settings. The best fictional homes become characters.
Some fictional homes are impossible to forget because they shape the emotional world of the story itself.
A house can represent comfort. Or loneliness. Or memory. Or longing.
Sometimes a house becomes a bridge between generations, carrying the emotional weight of everyone who has passed through its doors. And sometimes, the house itself seems to guard secrets.
That idea has always fascinated me deeply as a writer.
I love homes with hidden staircases, old portraits, locked rooms, forgotten letters, libraries filled with dust and silence, and clocks that seem to belong to another century. Especially clocks.
Perhaps because clocks remind us that houses witness time differently than people do.
Historic homes have a unique ability to awaken creativity because they blur the line between past and present. Inside certain places, it becomes easy to imagine another era still existing just beyond reach.
A woman descending the staircase in 1909.
A piano playing somewhere late at night.
A family gathered around candlelight.
Footsteps echoing through empty halls long after midnight.
Old houses create emotional atmosphere almost effortlessly. They encourage us to dream. And perhaps that is why so many stories begin with a place.
Places have always played an important role in my own writing, especially in the Upon A Time series.
Coleman House, introduced in ‘Til Time Do Us Part and continuing throughout the series, became far more than a backdrop for the story. It became part of the mystery itself. I wanted the house to feel timeless — elegant, haunting, beautiful, and filled with memory. A place where past and present could almost touch.
The kind of house where you might discover an old key hidden behind a wall panel… or hear echoes of another century in the silence. Because some houses do not simply shelter stories. They keep them.
I think readers are drawn to old homes for the same reason writers are. They represent continuity. Even as generations pass, houses remain standing quietly through love, heartbreak, loss, celebration, and time itself. They remind us that life is temporary, but stories endure. And perhaps somewhere deep inside us, we all long for places that remember us long after we are gone. Maybe that is why certain fictional homes feel real long after the final page. We do not simply visit them while reading. Part of us continues living there.
CHAPTER ONE
And so, it was done. The Coleman house,the most challenging restoration project Before & After, Inc. had ever taken on, was finished.
The result was, hands down, spectacular. Nika glanced around the entry hall as she walked farther into the old manor. Yes, it was indeed a brilliant job, if she said so herself. A whiff of fresh paint tickled her nose and a brief smile touched her lips.
Every ounce of her skill, every drop of her sweat and blood, was invested into the project. She and her crew labored for ten brutal months to restore the mansion, and awaken this great sleeping beauty.
She trailed her right-hand fingertips along the glossy walnut banister as she continued to the formal living room. Memories flooded her mind with every step.
The longest and most difficult time of her life. Ten moths she lived and slept right here, on the site, working like a woman possessed. She ran herself and everybody ragged, acquired a few enemies along the way, but more good friends. And at the end, she made good on her promise.
Never mind that she made that promise to the house. To Nika, a promise was a promise. She chuckled, as she recalled that day, when she first stepped inside the Coleman house. Brimming with joy, she was impatient to start on her dream-come-true job. So elated, so in a rush, Nika almost salivated at the prospect of getting her hands on the house at last. Since she first laid eyes on the house it became her obsession. She fought for the privilege to own it, but to no avail. All attempts from her cousin and business partner Alex to make an offer met with resolute denial from its current owners. Then, one day, out of the blue, their company, Before & After, Inc., was presented with an offer they couldn’t refuse: carte blanche to restore the Coleman house. The circumstances of that offer were most remarkable and unorthodox. But the opportunity was just too irresistible to pass up, especially for her, the professional House Whisperer, who dreamt about this once posh residence for three long years.
Reluctant at first, Nika soon became driven. After her phantasmagorical journey through time and her unexpected return, she simply had no choice.
She plunged ahead, single-minded, and unwavering. Even the most devastating pandemic that swept along, disintegrating the world, didn’t put a hitch in her stride. Left with a skeleton crew, Nika refused to stop. The suggestion of the local authorities to pause the renovations was met with her resolute defiance.
She continued her work even when Abby got ill with COVID-19. And that was the hardest challenge of them all. For twenty devastating days, alone and isolated, Abby fought that viscous virus in the hospital, the very same that her brother had built and donated to the city some hundred plus years prior.
Nika shuddered. The memories of the night Abby was taken to the hospital were still fresh in her mind. Fear, anger, helplessness.
They coped differently. Alex made donations to the various labs working on a vaccine. Their grandmother Verochka prayed and kept vigils. Nika drove herself harder.
She raged and raved and cursed fate, but never stopped restoring Abby’s childhood home.
Well, all of that was behind them now, and the Coleman house was finished.
At last.
There was nothing more for Nika to do but turn the keys to its legal owner Senator Lauder. In a few days he would fly in to take over.
Just a few short days…
Not enough time to get used to the idea that the most challenging and unusual project of her career was completed. Finished. Done with. Period.
Sad and lost, Nika glanced around for the last time. The spacious foyer, the staircase, the floors, and walls, and ceiling…Everything gleamed, and shone, and pleased the eye. The perfectionist in her rejoiced, while the woman wept in silence.
Hollowed out, mind and body, she was so tired and… empty. Deflated.
Was it like postpartum depression? Probably. No, worse, because the ‘baby’ she labored very hard to bring to life was never hers to begin with.
The Coleman house belonged to strangers, and she was just a surrogate mother to it for almost a year. But for the next few days, the house was all hers.
Nika swept her eyes around one more time before she turned to the object of her greatest fear and hope: the infamous Coleman’s heirloom, the grandfather clock. The sentry of the house, as she dubbed it, stood six feet tall, domineering the space. Restored and cleaned to its original perfection after half a century of neglect, this English masterpiece circa 1827 was one magnificent creation that always adorned the Coleman household. Carved out of dark mahogany, its case was warm as velvet and soft to the touch, while its face and arms, inlaid with 18th carat gold, sparkled and gleamed like a mirror.
Now, all polished and spiffed up, it ticked out time in a dignified and solemn manner, like the superb object d’art it was. This clock, however, was one of a kind in more ways than one. Wound up by a small brass key, it transformed into a portal between times. That key, three inches in length, plain and ordinary, etched into Nika’s memory forever. But, like a clock, it too was unique.
The special hiding place on the back of the clock’s panel was another mystery she uncovered a year ago, urged by the letter written to her in 1909. She knew each word by heart.
Find the key. You know where it is. Hurry, for goodness’ sake!
Lo and behold, she found it. Prompted by some invisible force, Nika inserted that key into the clock’s slot, and was transported a hundred and ten years back.
To 1909.
On the patch of a dirt road, thunderstruck and stunned, she met the one and only Elijah B. Coleman, the author of that cryptic letter, and the master of the Coleman house.
Talk about weird. Or amazing.
Nika’s hand rested on the ring she wore on a chain around her neck. The day Eli proposed, on November 7, 1909, he put it on her finger. His grandmother’s heirloom amethyst that reminded him of her unusual violet-blue eyes he said.
Since her return, Nika couldn’t bear to see it on her hand as a constant reminder of her loss. But neither could she part with it. So, she put it on a chain, and wore it close to her heart, drawing from it her strength, and hope. And patience.
When she was low on all three, she would go to the old cemetery, Bosque Bello, and visit two graves, and remind herself that one day she, indeed, would find her way back. Because the second, smaller headstone, the one she called Daisy’s in her own mind, with missing a birthdate and an odd inscription ‘the timeless miracle’, was her own.
There was no doubt in her mind that she’d find her way back. The million-dollar question was when. Because, as she discovered, the physics of time didn’t apply equally to the different dimensions. She lived in 1909 for almost three months, but in her own century it amounted to just three days, so her family didn’t even notice her absence.
Talk about irony.
Today marked fourteen months since she and Abby made their infamous journey to the present time. Nika was afraid to apply the same math, because the answer was daunting. She glanced again at the grandfather clock, and reached out to touch the gleaming surface. Then, as was her habit, she squeezed her hand between the wall and the clock’s backside, fingering a barely-there small button that opened the hidden panel. Nika held her breath as she reached inside the tiny place, but her fingers encountered the empty space. She swore under her breath.
“Dammit, Coleman, for someone so smart, you could’ve figure it out long time ago!”
The mysterious sentry of the Coleman household refused any and all key copies she acquired. No matter how well it fit inside the slot, the clock never turned back to life. The only solution was to get the original key, the one that she dropped in 1909 during her return trip. But how? Nika was losing her patience, along with her sanity, when the answer, simple as day, dawned on her. To get her hands on the original key here and now, Eli must put it in its hiding place then and there. If he did it once, he must do it again. He must!
He will.
He’d figured it out the same way she did.
Every night for the past ten months, exhausted after full day of work, she sat before the grandfather clock, and waited. To no avail.
She refused to entertain the notion that Eli deliberately withheld the key. He was a hard man, a proud one, but never cruel. And he loved her.
But would a proud man wait fourteen years for his runaway bride?
He would. He did. The two graves at the Bosque Bello were her proof.
“Come on, Eli. Don’t make me wait any longer. Put the damn key back in its hiding place!”
Her desperate shout reverberated through the vast emptiness of the mansion.
“Okay, you stubborn moron,” Nika’s shoulders slumped in resignation. “And that goes for you too.” She frowned at the grandfather clock. “Wouldn’t hurt you to help me a little, now, would it? Time’s running out, you know. In a few days I will turn the house to its owner. So, it’s up to you now. I did what I could. I upheld my side of the bargain. Now the ball is in your court.”
Without looking back, Nika walked down the hallway.
The eerie silence of the empty house was interrupted by a sudden loud bong of the antique clock just as she closed the front door.
Music has always been part of my storytelling. Long before a scene fully forms in my mind, there is often music playing somewhere in the background — sometimes softly, sometimes overwhelmingly — shaping emotion, atmosphere, and memory long before the words arrive. For me, writing and music are deeply connected. Both tell stories without needing to explain everything directly. A single melody can create longing. A single note can awaken memory. A single song can transport us back to another moment in our lives almost instantly. That emotional power fascinates me endlessly as a writer.
One of the most remarkable things about music is how quickly it reaches the heart. Before we fully understand a story, we feel it. Music works the same way. A haunting violin can create sorrow before a single word is spoken. A sweeping orchestral piece can make a moment feel timeless. A soft piano melody can carry nostalgia, romance, loneliness, or hope all at once. When I write emotional scenes, I often imagine them almost like film sequences — with music shaping the emotional rhythm beneath the dialogue and imagery.
Sometimes I build entire chapters around a feeling created by a melody.
Every book seems to carry its own musical atmosphere. Some stories demand silence and reflection. Others feel cinematic and grand. For my time travel stories, I am often drawn to music that feels nostalgic, mysterious, and emotional — pieces that seem suspended between centuries. For more emotional or introspective scenes, piano music becomes especially important. Piano has a unique ability to feel intimate and haunting at the same time, almost like memory itself. And sometimes, music becomes more than inspiration.
Sometimes, it becomes part of the story.
Have you ever heard a song and instantly remembered a person, a place, or a moment you thought you had forgotten? Music has an extraordinary relationship with memory. A melody can unlock emotions buried for years. It can bring back entire moments with startling clarity — the light in a room, the feeling in your chest, even the version of yourself you once were.
That connection between music and memory has always fascinated me creatively. Perhaps that is why music appears so often in my writing: because it feels deeply tied to emotion, longing, nostalgia, and the invisible threads connecting people across time.
Music helps create those emotional landscapes. It slows scenes down. It deepens emotion. It gives silence meaning.
I often think of stories visually and musically at the same time. Sometimes I imagine scenes almost like fragments from an old film: rain against windows, empty concert halls, distant piano melodies, city lights at midnight, forgotten letters tucked between pages of old books.
And in many ways, it becomes another character within the story itself.
Music became especially important while writing Rhapsody in Dreams — a story shaped by dreams, memory, longing, and the haunting feeling that certain souls may find each other again and again across lifetimes.
The novel’s emotional atmosphere was deeply influenced by piano music and cinematic compositions.
I wanted the story to feel almost dreamlike — delicate, emotional, nostalgic, and slightly unreal, like a melody remembered from another life. Because sometimes music expresses what words never fully can.
Stories and music both exist to make us feel something. They remind us of who we were. They help us process what we have lost. They allow us to dream beyond ordinary life.
And perhaps that is why certain books stay with us forever — because they carry emotional rhythms we recognize somewhere deep inside ourselves. Long after the final page is turned, the feeling remains.
Like a song we cannot forget.
Her seat was empty.
Al took another bow, smiling at the audience. A standing ovation, which he never took for granted and was always touched and humbled by, held him on the stage of the Jacoby Hall for the last fifteen minutes straight. They didn’t want to let him go. Shouts of bravos, loud cheering, and even whistling along with a thundering applause kept him in a spellbound state of mind only a musician could understand. His heart rejoiced. His art, his music, was well received and approved of, accepted. The Oktoberfest concert was a smashing success. Al was happy, but tired to the marrow. And strangely bereft. Her seat was empty.
Why did she leave? When did she leave? She was there through the first part of the evening, for the Wagner. During the intermission, he tried to switch gears and prepare himself mentally and emotionally for the Beethoven part of the concert, all the while changing his soaked-through clothes. He was too wound up and busy to think about anything but the music.
When he came on stage for the second part, she was there, sitting with her grandmothers and her friend, looking like a human torch in her dazzling golden dress. Her eyes, those impossibly huge mermaid’s eyes, looked straight at him—straight through him—like she could see inside of his head and his heart. How could he ever forget those eyes?!
Al’s breath hitched, and his heart went into overdrive. How could he ever think that he could forget about her?! How he could have survived these eighteen years without her was the question he couldn’t answer, even if he had the time and inclination to ask himself and to ponder on, which he did not. He was on stage, about to perform one of the most demanding pieces in music history: Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony with the famous Ode to Joy.
But he could feel her eyes on him all through the sixty-five minutes of the performance, from the very first note to the very last. He was never distracted when he performed; he never thought of the audience behind him when he conducted or in front of him when he played as a soloist. During the performance, he’d forget where he played—what city, town, country—never think of what hall, theater, or stage he was currently on. He simply forgot anything and everything as soon as the music started. Such was his focus on music and his dedication to the craft.
Today was the very first time when he had felt his focus wavering—oh, so slightly—by the presence of one special member of the audience. Her. And for the first time in his career, it mattered what that one member of the audience thought of his performance, whether she liked it or not.
And then, after the Ninth, when the excitement of the audience and the thundering applause made him return onstage for the fourth time, Al decided to play a very special piece just for her. He didn’t know that he would. It wasn’t planned.
But when it became obvious that an encore was inevitable, Al had requested a piano to be wheeled in the center, and he sat at the bench. The audience exploded with an enthusiastic applause but hushed as soon as Al lifted both hands, palms up.
The silence was absolute.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes. And then began to play.
It was the piece inspired and dedicated to the girl who looked at him with her huge blue eyes clouded with pain and shock. It was a melody born from the heart and nurtured by the promise he had made—to show her the wings. He had composed it more than two decades ago and had played it in public only once. For her. Eighteen years ago. Today was the second time. Unusually nervous, Al placed his fingers over the piano keys. And showed her the wings. Again.
When the piece was over, Al sat at the bench for a long time, his eyes closed, his hands poised over the piano, suspended in between the music and the silence.
The audience, spellbound by the magic, was mute. And then all the people in Jacoby Hall surged to their feet. It was a standing ovation. It was an absolute success. Al, finally coming back to reality, slowly rose from the bench and, turning to the audience at last, looked directly at the place where his special guests were seated. But her seat was empty…
Seek the Magic in Every Story 