Unwritten Futures

Chapter 5: A Chance Encounter

February 28, 1983
LONDON, ENGLAND

*****BENNY

A few days after Linda's birthday, Björn and I met in London to set everything in motion the musical we have been working on. As the first initial audition unfolded, I sat at the piano, going over the music.

"Benny Andersson?" A small voice pulled me from my concentration, catching me off guard as I played.

I looked up to find a young girl standing beside me. I hadn't even heard her approach, as if she had appeared out of nowhere. Her extravagant outfit immediately set her apart from everyone else in the audition space. A golden clip adorned with precious stones held her wavy hair in place, and her dress was as elegant as something fit for a princess attending a formal ball. Her style was strikingly out of place for this era, and it suddenly dawned on me that she must be one of the actors for the musical, likely already dressed in costume.

"And you are?" I asked, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

"My name is Raven Ciaran," she replied, her bright eyes sparkling with a familiar light. Those almond-shaped eyes, high, defined cheekbones, well-shaped lips, and oval face—so reminiscent of Frida's—radiated a mix of innocence and mischief that drew me in instantly. While Frida's soft smile exudes calm grace, Raven's had an air of mystery and playful intrigue. Still, the resemblance between them was unmistakable. It's like I'm looking at a ten-year old Frida or someone who could pass as her daughter.

"The audition won't start until later this morning," I said, glancing at the clock. "You're early."

"Yes, I know, but I didn't come for the audition. Besides, I don't think there's a role that suits me," she said. Without waiting for an invitation, she eagerly hopped onto the stool beside me, her excitement undeniable. I smiled as she prepared to play the piano, her small fingers hovering above the keys. With a determined breath, she began to play.

The first notes were exquisite, flowing from her fingers with a grace that belied her youth. I watched, mesmerized, as she poured herself into the music. But then, she suddenly stopped and turned to me, her gaze intense, as if trying to convey something without uttering a single word.

Then she began playing again, and my breath caught in my throat. The next notes froze me in place; this piece was oddly familiar. I hadn't heard it in years, but the melody was engraved in my memory. It was more than ten years ago when I first played this piece. And it wasn't even mine. This belonged to someone named Raven.

"You're that Raven?" I asked, astonished as the realization washed over me. My mind raced back to the stories Frida had shared about her cousin, the one who lived with her and her grandmother in the mid-1960s, a few years before I met Frida. I had always imagined her as a shadow in Frida's past, a distant figure connected to our shared history.

"Oh, so you do know me," she said, with that mischievous grin spreading across her face again. "I'm glad! Did she mention me to you?"

"She did," I replied, intrigued by the connection. "She spoke about you often during our first years together. You were a big part of her life. I didn't realize you were the same Raven who composed those beautiful pieces for Arntine's funeral."

Raven's eyes twinkled with delight, and she leaned closer to the piano, her fingers itching to continue playing. "I wrote it for her. It's a song about family and the memories we share. I wanted her to remember me, even when I was gone."

I felt a pang in my chest, knowing how much Frida had cherished those memories. "You were a significant part of her life," I said softly. "Your music had a lasting impact on her. And you provided her comfort when her grandmother passed away in 1970."