Madly Deeply Always (Unspoken Longing #1)

Chapter 1 Ghosts of Silence

Ghosts of Silence

Lily-Anne

I’m frozen in the Sydney Airport carpark, about to cross oceans for a man I’ve never met.

I must be mad. The last man I trusted nearly erased me.

My voice. My confidence. My music.

All gone.

Now there is only silence, and it’s winning. If I were half the musician I trained to be, I’d have broken it by now. But I can’t. The only thing breaking is me, and the Englishman waiting for me across the sea has no idea how much I’m counting on him to glue the pieces back together.

Unless he takes one look at the mess I am and realises he’s made a terrible mistake.

A cold gust slaps me as I stare into the boot of our old sedan, my pulse spiking.

The black case stares back, cold metal latches gleaming in the predawn light, the lid shut and sealed tight like a secret.

My guitar case.

Mum joins me by the boot, pulling my suitcase behind her. She follows my gaze and sighs. “It’s not a dead body, Lily.”

No. But it holds the ghost of one. I carefully unlatch the hard case and lift the lid, my stomach knotting at the sight of my pride and joy—a Cole Clark semi-acoustic made of Australian blackwood.

Tears prick my eyes. I can hardly bear to touch it, though every part of me still aches to play.

“You’ll see, love,” Mum says gently. “This trip is just what you need. Sea breeze, new people…inspiration?”

She doesn’t say how much she hates flying. How much she’d rather I stayed.

“Thanks, Mum.” I reach down tentatively to brush the strings. They hum in response, a soft, beautiful sound that cuts deeper than it should. Dad gave me this guitar on my sixteenth birthday. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t played it—until six weeks ago.

I shut the lid, my throat growing tight.

I shouldn’t feel like this. I have a degree in music.

Years of lessons, concerts, and busking with friends at Circular Quay. Writing songs in my bedroom—songs that Dad had believed in.

But then I lost him, and I lost my way. I couldn’t write, and though I kept playing, the joy only surfaced when I thought of Dad. Everything else rang hollow.

And that feeling never left. I forced my way through a Bachelor of Music Studies, promising myself I’d have a fresh start after graduation. I’d write songs again. Find joy in music. Finally feel like myself.

Instead, I let myself be pressured into an ensemble at the start of this year. It should have been perfect, performing on stage with other musicians for a living, but I was struggling not to fall apart. Music became work, and the Cole Clark only came out of its case when there was a concert.

I’d done all the right things, but on the inside, I was as miserable as ever.

Six weeks ago, I quit that job and ended things with my ex—and brought my world crashing down.

And now?

Nothing.

No gigs. No fire. No sound.

I’d settle for simply being able to play a chord. Funny, how hauling my guitar across the globe might make that possible.

“Dad would be proud of you,” Mum reassures me.

Her words only make the ache in my chest worse.

I turn to her, wrapping my arms around her middle like I used to when I was small. She’s soft and warm, the familiar scent of her rose moisturiser calming my racing heart.

As we pull apart, my hair snags on her silver hair clip.

“Ow! Sorry—” I let out a pained laugh as I untangle our blonde waves.

“Careful!” Mum cries as the clip falls. “That was—”

I catch it before it hits the ground.

“An anniversary gift from Dad,” I finish, handing it back to her. The last one he would ever give her.

It’s hard to believe it’s already been three years.

She fixes it back in place. “Right then—shall we head inside?”

The guitar case bumps against my leg as we move through the crowd. No one gives it a second glance, but I feel like an imposter carrying it.

As we wait in the check-in line, a Fiji Airways poster of a luxury resort with palm trees draws my attention. It’s the kind of place any Aussie in their right mind would go to escape our June winter.

I picture myself there, lounging by the pool, soaking up the sun, and sipping cocktails like I haven’t a care in the world…

And then gunning it across the ocean on a jet ski loud enough to drown out the thoughts planted in my head by my ex-boyfriend.

“Wishing you were going somewhere warmer?” Mum asks, following my gaze.

I release a breath. “Just a little. Did you see the forecast? It’ll be raining in Whitstable.”

“That’s the English summer for you,” she says lightly, squinting at her phone. “Let’s see…Oh, look! It’s not so bad. Next weekend’s supposed to have a top of 18°C.”

“Yay?”

She’s trying her best to stay positive, but we both know I didn’t book this trip for sunshine.

I’m flying to England for a man more than a decade older than me. A complete stranger.

A handsome stranger, if the publicity shots still floating around online are anything to go by. Sharp jawline, dark eyes, the kind of face that probably made artists take him seriously without him having to say much.

But his looks are irrelevant. I’m not going for love. I’m going for music. For a chance to get my creative spark back.

With his mentorship, maybe I will.

At the counter, I’m handed the boarding passes for my flights. Two for me. Two labelled EXST—extra seats for my guitar. I couldn’t stand the thought of it getting thrown around like another suitcase.

“At least you won’t be travelling alone,” Mum says brightly, smiling at my guitar. “Come on. There’s plenty of time to get breakfast before you go through security.”

We slide into the booth of an airport café, the air thick with the scent of burnt espresso and microwaved croissants.

By the time our pancakes arrive, Mum’s earlier optimism takes a nosedive. I think being deep within the airport is bringing back memories of Dad.

She toys with a strawberry distractedly. “Don’t you want to know a bit more about where you’ll be staying?”

I shrug, swirling maple syrup around my plate.

“I looked it up on Google Maps. It’s a cottage by the sea—two storeys, weatherboard walls, a little garden out the front.

I’m sure it’ll be lovely.” I pull out my phone and turn the screen to show her a row of pastel-coloured Edwardian houses in pink, blue, and yellow. “Can’t tell which one it is, though.”

Mum leans closer, squinting at the photo. “Hopefully the pink one.”

We smile. Then her tone changes, the edge returning. “Are you sure you want to stay with this man?”

“I’m not staying with him. It’s a separate flat upstairs. And you’ve already met Brandon.”

“Yes, but you haven’t. You were on that school trip when he came round for dinner. Aren’t you nervous to meet him?”

“Not really,” I lie.

This whole trip was a spontaneous decision, but now that it’s real with my boarding pass printed and bags checked, I’m not sure if I’m brave or na?ve.

All I know is that he’s there.

Brandon Ward. The quiet family friend from England who spent his twenties managing artists and even worked with Dad’s record company in Sydney. He’s thirty-three now, and based on his emails and everything I’ve read online, he’s stepped away from the music industry entirely.

Technically, we’ve met before. He flew back for Dad’s funeral, but I don’t remember him or much of anything from that day.

I hadn’t thought of him at all until a few weeks ago.

Grief carried me through our quiet house and into Dad’s office, where I sat scrolling through his old work emails, one after another, without really reading.

Brandon’s name kept popping up. Steady. Grounded.

Reliable. That’s how he described Brandon to colleagues, painting a picture of a quiet force in the industry who helped artists find their spark again.

Which is exactly what I need. With no one else to turn to, and my music slipping out of reach, I foolishly reached out…

Only to be amazed when he actually replied to my rambling, dog’s breakfast of an email. It gave me hope.

“If anyone can help me reconnect with my music, it’s him,” I tell Mum.

“I know. But I’d feel more comfortable if Ellenor were going with you.”

Me too. But my older sister is a hotshot city lawyer, too busy working herself to the bone. I don’t know how she does it—trying to fix other people’s lives. It’s hard enough trying to fix my own.

Mum sighs, forlorn. “Oh, my baby girl. Going overseas all by herself…”

“I’m twenty-one,” I interject, then soften. “But yes, I’m still your baby.”

“What if the two of you don’t get along? He and Ellenor didn’t exactly hit it off when we had him over for dinner all those years ago.”

I snort softly. Ellenor is combative by nature. But she supports my going, even if she thought Brandon was dull.

I don’t agree. From the few texts we’ve exchanged, he seems to have a sense of humour.

Like the photo he sent the other week of a half-renovated bathroom coated in plaster dust, asking what colour I’d like the walls painted. I jokingly suggested neon green.

He replied, promising to deliver an ‘exciting beige’. I wasn’t sure if that was sarcasm or just British enthusiasm, but he received a laughing emoji from me, anyway.

It felt strange to be bantering with someone again, like the humour had been bottled up inside me for years. Stranger still to imagine some Englishman on the other side of the world working hard to get things ready for my stay. It makes me feel…welcome.

I reach across the table and squeeze Mum’s hand. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

She searches my face, then nods and tries for a cheerful smile, though she’s never been as good at faking it as Dad and Ellenor. Like me, she wears her heart on her sleeve.

I smother my last pancake with maple syrup, hoping it will douse the nerves knotted in my stomach. I haven’t felt this anxious since I broke up with—

“Maybe this holiday will help you forget your ex,” Mum the Mind Reader says, topping up our orange juice.

My shoulders tense. While I’m grateful she doesn’t mention Toby by name, I’d rather she didn’t bring him up at all. “Please, can we just…not?”

“Alright.” She nods, but I can tell she wants to talk about it.

I don’t blame her. She lost me there for a while. Still worries I’ll go back to him.

I met Toby after Dad died and dated him through my three-year degree. By the time I graduated, I barely knew how to be without him.

I shocked myself—and everyone else—when I broke up with him without warning.

I’m relieved to be free of him, but the damage lingers, my music so tangled with pain that I can’t play at all. So Mum needn’t worry, I won’t take him back. I’m desperate to move on.

I just don’t know how.

The clatter of cutlery pulls me back to the café. My plate is empty—I stress-ate without realising. Oops.

After breakfast, Mum fusses, checking I still have my passport and phone charger, along with a dozen other things.

As she chatters, my chest tightens. I picture her sitting alone in our weatherboard house near Manly Beach. How quiet it will be.

Dad’s gone.

Ellenor moved out years ago to be closer to her job in the city.

And now I’m leaving too, for who knows how long. Brandon vaguely mentioned that he didn’t plan to rent out his upstairs flat this summer, and that I could stay as long as I liked.

In the meantime, Mum will be by herself. I can’t help but feel like I’m letting her down.

The tears are back, threatening to fall. Her eyes glisten too, her smile wobbling.

“It’s okay, Mum…I’ll be back.”

“I know, darling.” She smooths my hair the way Dad used to. “I hope this trip will be everything you wish for.”

I hope so too. Mum had to pull nursing doubles at the hospital just to help me afford the extra plane tickets. If Brandon hadn’t offered the cottage for free, I probably wouldn’t be going to England at all.

She hugs me, extra-tight. “You’ll call me, won’t you?”

“Of course. Every day.”

“Not every day! I want you to make the most of your trip. But send our group chat lots of photos.”

“I will,” I promise.

“Now, I know your visa is for six months, but you can come back anytime.”

“I won’t be gone that long,” I promise.

She pulls me in for one last hug. “Text me when you land.”

“I will.”

I wave as she heads towards the terminal exit. And then she’s gone.

I’m on my own, but not for long. Soon I’ll be in England, standing before Brandon Ward, the man my father once trusted with music.

The man I’m crossing the world for to trust with mine.