She Was the Treasure All Along novel Chapter 966

After that night, the dynamic between Helena and Swain shifted into something effortless. It wasn't the kind of exhausting socializing where you had to scramble for topics; it was just the easy, comfortable rhythm of two friends hanging out.

Helena didn't hate it.

When she was alone in the studio, it felt like being stranded on a deserted island. Every wrong note bounced off the walls, mocking her. But when Swain was around, his presence acted like an acoustic sponge, soaking up all that sharp, anxious energy.

She could mess up, and he would just laugh and tell her it sounded great anyway, treating her like she was the only genius in the world. Surprisingly, it did wonders for her mental state during the day.

Even though the nights were still brutal—when the anxiety would rush back, drowning her until she spiraled into desperate, self-destructive habits just to cope.

"Are you sure you want my notes? I'm not distracting you?" Swain asked one afternoon.

Helena thought about it. "I actually really need the feedback. Stop just listening and tell me what you think."

Swain rubbed the back of his neck. "Alright, if you say so."

His understanding of music was entirely feral. He had never been to a conservatory, and he couldn't read a lick of sheet music, but he had a phenomenal ear.

"This part feels flat," he'd say bluntly, pointing at a section Helena had spent hours perfecting. "It sounds like someone else wrote it."

At first, Helena's pride stung, but after replaying the bars, she realized he was entirely right.

"So how would you fix it?"

Swain shrugged, looking sheepish. "I don't know how to write music." He sat next to her on the bench and mashed a few random, chaotic keys. "But I feel like... this part needs to sound more suffocating. Like, desperate."

Helena frowned. "That's a lot of emotion for one sequence."

Swain scrunched his face, struggling to translate the feeling into words. "You're scoring a movie about a guy walking through a desert, right? If you're walking until your feet are bleeding, your lips are cracked, and sand is whipping your face, your brain isn't thinking in perfect, neat melodies."

Helena stared at him, letting the words sink in. She turned back to the keys, playing the sequence again, this time channeling the grit and exhaustion he described. "You're right. You're completely right."

Swain's face broke into a massive grin.

***

A week later, late in the afternoon, the sun slanted through the studio's skylight, casting a warm golden glow over the grand piano.

Swain was up on a ladder in the corner, fixing a wall sconce that had been flickering for days. Helena sat at the piano, her sheet music covered in scribbles, her fingers slowly picking out a melody.

Swain would occasionally throw out a comment, and Helena would tweak the notes, but even when Swain said it sounded perfect, something still felt... off. It wasn't quite there.

Helena finished playing the final section and let her hands drop, blowing out a long breath.

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