Halfway through, something broke. It wasn't her E string, though it sounded like it. It was the silence where Maestro Silvan’s breathing used to be. The phantom memory of his tapping foot. She froze.
And then, without thinking, she lowered her bow and played the three notes from the envelope. D. E. Low A. emma rose demi
For the first movement, she was flawless. A machine of perfect angles and ringing intonation. The judges nodded, pencils poised. Halfway through, something broke
For one horrifying second, her bow hovered above the strings, and her mind went white. The orchestra faltered. The phantom memory of his tapping foot
The week before the national finals—the one that came with a gold medal and a debut with the Philharmonic—Maestro Silvan died. A quiet aneurysm in his garden, still clutching a pruning shear. Emma felt the world tilt. Her anchor was gone.