Fox's Glade It was a perfectly good grand piano

Merrit noticed a shift in her, the slightest wave of displeasure. A pain kicked in the space beneath his sternum; he found little reason for her aversion except that, perhaps, she really was upset by him. He wouldn't have blamed her. Like Clay, and Keen, he, too, had run away and left her.

That feeling of being punched in the gut lingered even when she conceded to his approach, but his face revealed next to nothing of the uncertainty and hurt he felt. Experience and mistakes had trained him to keep his cards close to his chest so that at times, even he couldn't read them. As much as Clary had tried to teach him otherwise, he'd accepted that was one thing they would always disagree on.

Yet he wasn't averse to hearing the hearts of others, especially of the ones he loved. Merrit settled next to his sister at her invitation, unknowingly on the side she had grown to loathe. Her face, though disfigured, was still his sisters; he knew her soul, and he would always find her beautiful.

At her statement, silence claimed him. Contemplative, and full. His mind was much too loud, and quiet all the same, filled with murmurings too deep for words. He had so much to ask and knew very little of where to start, so he drew his gaze with hers to watch the trees across the river, and how they speckled the water with tears of autumn leaves.

The world was sad. He felt the heaviness greater than before. "Why do you come here?" he settled on at last.