"I can't do it." She presses her lips together and swallows hard.
For a moment, I'm not sure what she's referring to. Are we still talking about the exam, or is it more about the magical tension that exists between us? "Why not?"
She lowers her gaze. Her fingers gently stroke the gem-encrusted box in her hand. Is that supposed to be a clue? Does all her behavior have something to do with this pretty little thing?
"Will you tell me what it is?" I ask cautiously.
She continues tracing the intricate patterns with her index finger. Minutes pass, during which she opens her mouth several times but closes it without uttering a word.
"A music box," she finally whispers into the silence between us. "My father gave it to me."
I gaze at the box, a little perplexed. "Does it play a special tune?"
Maya's response is a hesitant nod.
I gently stroke her tense cheeks with my thumbs. "May I hear it?"
Suddenly, her expression darkens. "No one can hear it." As if she immediately regrets her agitated tone, she furrows her brow.
"Not even yourself?"
I watch her reaction in astonishment as she shakes her head frantically. The music box was in her bag, which means she carries it with her constantly. Why does she do that if she never opens it?
As I look at her, more questions arise within me.
Who is this woman with the deep, dark eyes? What is she hiding behind her cheerful laughter, colorful attire, and apparent carefree demeanor?
Suddenly, something strange happens. Maya reaches for my hand and intertwines her trembling fingers with mine. "My father died when I was fourteen," she says so softly that I can barely hear her. "This box is the only thing I have left of him."
Another reason to open it. Or not? "Did you have a happy time with him during your childhood?" I ask because everything else seems too delicate.
Her face brightens. "He was the best father anyone could imagine."
"That sounds wonderful. Did you do things together often?" He must have always been by her side. Quite the opposite of my own father.
"No." She shrugs, but the sparkle remains in her eyes. "He worked a lot. When he had time off, he was usually tired." Her mouth twitches. "That wasn't a problem," she quickly adds as if she needs to defend him. "When he was well-rested, he was fantastic."
"He was always there for you," I say absentmindedly, unintentionally comparing Maya's childhood with my own.
She gives me a wistful smile. "He always knew what to do..."
"And he always believed in you," I instinctively finish her sentence.
Tears gather in the corners of her eyes. "How do you know that?"
"I'm sure he still believes in you," I say, feeling a sharp pain in my chest. Because all my life, I've wished for nothing more than to have a father like that. She shrugs. "If he were here right now, what do you think he would advise you?" I ask.
A melancholic expression passes over her face. She clears her throat. "Whenever you lose your way. And whenever you don't know what to do. Open this music box. Listen to the music," she says, altering her voice. Then she exhales shakily. "And remember that you are the greatest miracle of all."
That's what she is. Why can't she see that?
Suddenly, she lowers her eyes. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this."
I wrap my arms around her. "Because it's what your heart is telling you." Deep down, she knows what she needs to do, I'm sure of it.
She rests her head against my chest. "I can't give up," she murmurs. And even though she sounds far from convinced, it's at least a first step in the right direction.
"You can do it," I say. There's nothing more to be said. So I fall silent and hold her tightly as long as she'll let me. The rocking chair sways us gently back and forth, the scent of roses surrounds us, and the birds sing their own unique melody for us.
