The boy squinted at our hands clasped together, then lowered his face to shoot me a menacing glare. I quickly let go of Mrs. Delombre’s hand.
The boy continued to look at me, so I whispered, “You should set 1111 free. I’m sure she’ll come back.”
He stayed silent, holding the jar closer to his chest. I dashed inside the music studio, not wanting to keep Mrs. Delombre waiting. My eyes widened—broken instruments hung on the walls next to a table with tools.
“Instruments are like humans,” she said, her voice soft. “Broken but capable of producing exquisite music when treated right.”
One of the instruments made my heart thud, and my mouth gaped in wonder. It was the most magical violin—made of dark, almost black-varnished wood. It seemed to shimmer in the light as if dipped in ink. I imagined that the strings were woven from the finest strands of unicorn hair.
“It’s the Cigno Nero,” Mrs. Delombre began, her fingers caressing the violin’s neck like a mother rocking her baby to sleep. “It was crafted in the 1700s, in the heart of the ancient Violin Forest where a lone luthier lived. It was born from the rarest of woods and touched by the magic of the luthier’s black swan.”
I listened closely, my eyes wide open. I was seeing it. The violin’s neck did look like a swan.
“One of its black feathers was nestled within the very heart of the violin,” she continued, and I gasped. “Legends tell that the Cigno Nero’s melody—when played right—had the power to heal wounded hearts. For those who listened, it carried their hopes and dreams on its silken wings,” she whispered, like a secret between us. “Its sound has so many colors, so deep and warm. It’s an instrument that yearns to soar, just like the swan.”
“Could its music reach all the way to heaven?” I asked.I could talk to Mom again.“Can I play it?”
“One day.” Mrs. Delombre’s fingers trembled as they left the violin before she clutched her hand to her chest. “You’re not ready for it yet.”
“When will I be ready?”
She turned her back on the Cigno Nero and swallowed. “The day you become a true musician. When you’re able to express everything you want with your violin.”
I smiled wide, fiddling with my fingers. “I want nothing more than to become a true musician. I promised my mama that I’d perform at Pantheon’s Winter’s Symphony someday!”
“And a promise should always be kept.” Mrs. Delombre’s gaze shifted to the floor. Her eyes, unblinking, lost their sparkle and seemed dull now.
I took a hesitant step closer to her. “Can you make the Cigno Nero sing for me?”
“I can’t.” Her voice broke slightly, her fingers curling. “I can’t play as well as I did before. I would alter its timbre, I’m sorry.”
“Oh.” That was why she was sad. “Then I’ll have to become worthy of playing it for you.”
Mrs. Delombre gave me a warm smile, the kind my mom used to give me. “Can you close the door, please, before we start?”
Nodding, I moved to shut the door but noticed the butterfly jar on the floor as I reached for the handle. The butterfly wasn’t moving. Shivers crawled down my back. The boy had set her free, but not in the way I had hoped. When I looked up, the boy sat on the stairs, his cold eyes aimed at me through the spindles.
“Levi!” a loud man’s voice boomed from upstairs, causing the walls to tremble. “Did you disassemble my computer again?! Dammit!”
His name is Levi,I thought.
“Dalia?” Mrs. Delombre called out.
I panicked and slammed the door shut, closing him and his haunting eyes out.
11 years old
It was hatred at first sight.
Every Wednesday at 2:00 p.m., the front bell would ring.
Every Wednesday at 2:01 p.m., I’d take my place at the top of the stairs and watch her go inside my mother’s music studio.
It was bad enough that my mom treated her like the child she wished she had, greeting her with the smiles she never shared with me. But she’d also spend hours in her precious music sanctuary—a place she guarded with the ferocity of a dragon protecting its hoard—again with Dalia. And I wasn’t even allowed to touch a single instrument or set foot inside.
At 3:59 p.m., she’d exit the music studio.
Her—with her snow-white hair adorned with those ridiculous ribbons. Why did she have them on every time? She was probably tucked into her bed every night, her family reminding her how much of a blessing her existence was. She didn’t know anything about the real world. Her skin was soft—not a single scratch, like one of a doll. Mine was full of them.
