Author Melody Anne Novels & Stories

Her music rang through the night, creating a fabric of feelings that Ethan could feel deep inside. Amelia gave his hand a gentle squeeze, and her voice was full of quiet awe. "That is Seraphina, the Weaver of Melodies. Her music has the power to heal hurt souls and rekindle the flickering flames of hope. Let us listen and let the vibrations of her melodies mend the pieces of your broken heart."

~Vivienne *** 110625, Anne Joyce

Our return to New York is scheduled for the following afternoon, and after dinner, we are gathered in the more intimate family room that has, of all things, a television and speakers in it. Amara turns it on. “Anne,” she says with a grin. “Do you know how to dance?” Anne shrieks with joy. “Put on Molly Breeze!” I frown and look at Alyssa. “What is this?” “A popular singer in the US,” she smiles. Music blares from the speakers and Alyssa, Amara, and Anne get up. They begin to dance, the movements haphazard and wild. I feel motion, and still as Enzo stands next to me. “Drink?”

I guess our little guest is full of surprises. Just when I was about to link him again, Gaston came into view, the leash trailing along. I caught my breath when I saw Melody. She was in a soft crimson dress with a deep cut vee on the front. The sleeves went three quarter length down her arms, showing off how long and graceful they were. The waist was cinched with a black belt just above her hip line, making the skirt flair out a little more on the dress. It went down to her knees, and her legs were the same creamy white as the rest of her, like she was carved for a Roman temple.

They are charging you with singing other people's songs and marketing them as your songs, that you have been penning songs that you have zero right to sing. The room seemed to shudder. "That is a lie," I screamed, pounding my head. My chest constricted, breathing more than sufficient with rushed urgency. "That is not a lie, that is madness! You know me. You know the ways and means that I work, how long I've—" My voice was gruff and I closed my lips, holding my hammered fist in front of my face as the horror escaped.

"Lila’s aunt’s place. Somewhere outside Boulder. The press thinks you’re in a private clinic in Aspen. Ethan’s people think the same. We have at least a few days of silence." I sat up, the blanket sliding to my waist. I looked at my hands. They were steady. For the first time in ten years, they were absolutely still. No tremors. No phantom itch for a needle or a piano key. Just skin and bone and a strange, cold power. "Anya," I said. "The melody. The five notes." "I have them," she said, turning her laptop toward me. She’d been working. The screen was covered in audio waveforms and music notation.

With each loop and twist, she hummed a haunting melody that hung in the air like a spell. The sound of her song was achingly beautiful, a melody that seemed to transcend time itself. It carried a sense of comfort, as though it held within it the accumulated wisdom of generations. Her humming was a bridge between the past and the present, a haunting echo that resonated deep within my soul.

“Maybe Melody is the funniest one, you know she’s weird” “You’re not wrong” Melody strangely looked at me, it was like she heard what Nora said. I smiled at her and continued what I was doing. “Shh, he’s here everyone keeps quiet,” Liv said “No one was talking” “Shh” ****************************************** The concert was a blast, especially when Ed Sheeran sang `perfect‘ I love that song, we all enjoyed it except for Melody who sat down quietly throughout the concert. After we left the concert arena, we were about to enter the van when I remembered something

"Mr. Jackman, Ms. Sinclair is waiting for you in the conference room with her daughter." When Lucy walked in holding Melody's hand, she found Micah lost in thought over a spreadsheet on his computer. Five-year-old Melody was wearing the same white tulle dress Anna had worn on her birthday. She spoke in a sweet, childish voice. "Mr. Jackman, I just learned the 'Moonlight Lake.'" Music flowed from the grand piano in the conference room. Micah watched the child's flying fingers and suddenly stood up. At a certain modulation, Melody's fingering somehow overlapped with the rhythm Anna had tapped out on bottle caps on that park bench when she was seven.