The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 63

As the lights dimmed, the large screen on the stage displayed breathtaking footage of Antarctica's majestic glaciers, accompanied by a single line of text:

*Breathing Beneath the Ice*.

A slender figure walked slowly out of the shadows.

She wore a simple, vintage pearl-white satin gown devoid of any excessive embellishments. Her dark hair was loosely pinned up, revealing the elegant, soft lines of her profile. In her hands, she steadily held a deep brown cello.

As the woman stepped fully into the spotlight and slightly lifted her face, the wine glass in Garrison's hand gave an imperceptible tremor. His amber eyes violently contracted.

It was Sloane.

What was she doing here? And as a member of Project Deep Ice?

The smile on Quinn's face instantly froze. She stared in utter disbelief at the serene woman on stage. That white dress, the effortless grace with which she held the instrument—it possessed an understated yet overwhelming purity that effortlessly eclipsed everything else in the room.

On stage, Sloane took her seat. She elegantly positioned the cello between her knees, adjusted her posture, and rested her chin lightly against the wood. Then, she raised her right hand, holding the bow.

The bow struck the strings.

A deep, rich, sigh-like melody flowed out—slowly, yet incredibly resolute—instantly filling the hushed space. Unlike the bright notes of a piano, this sound was heavy and profound, carrying the ancient, buried chill of the Antarctic ice straight into everyone's hearts.

The room fell into a pin-drop silence.

Every gaze, every thought was captivated by the music and the tranquil, ethereal woman creating it.

Garrison sat completely paralyzed, staring at the achingly familiar yet strangely foreign figure bathed in the spotlight. It felt as though his heart, which hadn't truly raced in years, was being heavily and rhythmically struck by the melancholic notes.

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