Nikita Von James May 2026

She picked up her pen.

Nikita did not attend. She was in a small flat in Edinburgh, drinking tea that Samir would have made better, staring at a blank sheet of music paper. She had stopped playing piano years ago. But she still wrote. nikita von james

He looked up. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—recognition, then fear. Because he saw it now, didn’t he? The girl who listened. The girl who remembered. She picked up her pen

Nikita Von James had always been the quiet one in the family, the kind of quiet that made people uncomfortable. Not because she was shy—she wasn’t—but because she listened. She listened to the rustle of secrets in the walls of their old Victorian house, to the whispers her mother pretended not to hear at night, to the tiny, frantic heartbeat of the mouse trapped under the floorboards. She had stopped playing piano years ago

Yes, she thought. But not the way you mean.