“You’re avoiding the fracture,” I grunt.
Her eyes narrow slightly. “I’m preserving the arc.”
“You’re preserving safety.”
Silence stretches between us. Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. My eyes drop despite myself.
I flip around, striding back to the window. Outside, the wind moves across the roof with a low rushing sound.
“You don’t like my interpretation,” she says.
“I don’t like what you’re protecting.”
The words land harder than I intend. She lifts the violin again. “Then show me.” There’s no challenge in her voice. Just resolve.
I push away from the window. “I’m not conducting.”
“You don’t need a podium for this.”
She turns toward me fully now, violin resting lightly against her shoulder. Flannel bunched around her wrists, blonde curls draped over it like light from a halo.
“Music doesn’t belong to the composer once it leaves the page,” she says. “It belongs to the person brave enough to play it.”
“That’s a convenient philosophy for performers.” My jaw tightens. “But you’re wrong.”
“It’s the truth.”
“No,” I say. “It’s interpretation.”
She steps closer, lifting her chin in challenge. “Then interpret it.”
For a moment, I consider refusing. Instead, I raise my hand. Not high. Not like a conductor claiming the room. Just enough.
“From the second phrase,” I say.
She begins again.
The cabin becomes smaller as the sound grows. The wooden walls catch the vibration, holding it close. Her tone deepens as the line unfolds, responding instinctively to the movement of my hand, letting me shape it.
I don’t think about conducting. My arm moves before I decide it should. My body remembering the podium. Subtle gestures. Minor adjustments. A lift of fingers. A slight turn of the wrist.
Her eyes drop. She follows.
The transition approaches again, the fragile moment where the cadenza should erupt.
“Stop controlling it,” I say quietly.
“I’m not.”
“Youare.”
I step closer without realizing it. “Let it fracture.”
She plays through the measure once more. The note trembles.
“Yes,” I murmur.
The sound changes immediately. She senses it. Her breathing shifts—deeper now, matching the slow tempo I hold in the air between us.
