The house of the Stevenson family was a mansion that seemed to breathe power, tall marble pillars framed the entrance, shining floors reflected the silver chandeliers, and every corner spoke of wealth. Yet for William, it was not home. He lived here, yes, but never felt like he belonged.He often hid in his music room on the east wing of the house. It was the only place where he felt free, the piano waited for him with open arms, the guitar leaned quietly in the corner, and the violin lay in its velvet case, waiting for his hands to bring it alive, music was where his pain turned into something beautiful.That evening his fingers moved over the piano keys filling the room with a soft melody. It was not a happy tune, It was the sound of loneliness, a boy’s cry dressed in notes.Suddenly, the door burst open.William flinched as his fingers slipped on the keys, he looked up quickly, his stepmother, Camille Stevenson, stood there with her face twisted in rage. She held her phone tightly
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