3

I’m exhausted. I need a cigarette.

It was quite the struggle to drag myself home after pushing through that event. Once I’d returned, I dizzily fell back onto my couch, grabbing the pack of cigarettes lying on the table in front of me. I then pulled one out and placed it between my lips, fumbling for the lighter in my pocket.

I brought the lighter close to the cigarette and lit it. Then I inhaled.

My mind was typically blank during times like these, where I received a rush of pleasure and satisfaction to sate my craving for something more. But today felt a little different. Thoughts lingered in my head, especially those from the piano competition I had just come back from.

They were supposed to be unforgettable, I suppose. That was the point.

I exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dispel throughout the air.

To make something great…something beautiful that lasts. A masterpiece. I want to know how it feels to create something like that.

Why was it that I couldn’t get over those words? There was no reason for me to keep remembering them. I’d seen the girl’s performance, and now it was over. I shouldn’t have wanted anything more.

I shook off the cigarette ash into the tray next to me. Then I subconsciously asked myself a question.

…How does it feel to create a masterpiece?

Was it anything like what I’d just witnessed today? Was there a certain satisfaction in pouring your soul into something the way Mirelda did?

I had created several showpieces throughout my lifetime. I’d spent most of my years working to perfect my craft to the end of fulfilling my purpose. I should have known the answer better than anyone else.

And yet…I didn’t.

For some reason, I couldn’t remember the feeling of making something great. Even though it had been such a vital part of my existence, I’d forgotten it.

With a dab of hesitation, I brought my hand to the ashtray and put out the cigarette.

Did that mean…the only thing driving my self-approval was my own faded memory? Simply the fact that I had succeeded so long ago? That was the only thing substantiating my triumphant outlook?

Mirelda was experiencing a sensation that I had long since lost. It was a sensation that solidified one’s connection to their music.

…So did that make her a greater musician than I?

Gritting my teeth, I abruptly stood up and eyed an old, dusty violin case in the corner. I approached it and ran my fingers across its surface, feeling an odd coldness beneath my touch.

I stared for a moment. Then I opened it.

I was immediately greeted with the familiar scent of aged wood, and laid my eyes upon the old companion that I’d once spent so much time with. It wasn’t in the best condition, and it probably wouldn’t sound too great either. But I still picked it up. I felt like I had to.

It was incredibly familiar, the way it fit so nicely in my hands. I messed around with the tuning pegs and tried to find a comfortable tension, being careful so I wouldn’t break anything. The strings were worn, and so was the bow. I knew the sound it would make would be unpleasant at best, but it didn’t matter. I still positioned it under my chin and took a deep breath, gently placing the bow on the strings.

I asked myself why I was doing this. And to that, I answered:

Because I want to know how it feels.

So, with an unsteady hand, I scraped and weaved a hideous tune.