One Last Concerto

That morning, the apartment was quiet. Even the light seemed hesitant, bruised at the edges, filtering through gauzy curtains as though sorry for intruding and disturbing the dust. Caroline sat on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, surrounded by piles of sheet music like albino fallen leaves. She observed the sad detritus of her life. Empty coffee mugs lining the windowsill. A single sock forgotten under the couch. A single toothbrush barely visible, lonely in the holder under the bathroom mirror at the end of the hall. His, maybe. Or hers. She couldn’t remember which anymore.

The violin case lay open on the table. Her fingers traced the instrument’s glistening wood like it might whisper back. She used to tune the strings while he hummed in the kitchen, notes floating from one room to the other, filling the air like a dark murmuration. But now the silence pressed against her ribs. Some mornings she swore she could still hear him brushing his teeth, or dropping change in the bowl by the door, or saying her name like it was something to be kept safe and warm.

Today, her name was no more than dead ink on a poster outside glued on cold brick outside a concert hall.

Caroline Aster. Soloist. One Night Only.

She had laughed at that. It sounded like a threat.

The air inside the concert hall was replete with dignified anticipation. Deep shadows pooled in low corners. Antique chandeliers cast trembling pools of light that danced across red velvet seats and gilded balconies. Every surface gleamed. Every whisper was reverent. Patrons squeezed into their preening clothes spilled into the cushioned chairs and stared rapturously at the stage.

At the center of it all, under a single halo of white light, stood Caroline.

Her hands trembled inside like hummingbird wings around the polished neck of her violin, visible to no one but vibrating her entire world. How do they not see, she thought. How does no one see?

The dress she wore (satin, pale blue, water-like) clung to her as if it had been poured there from directly above, her hair a cascade of mahogany held back with sharp silver pins. She looked like something from a painting. Something framed and still and unforgettable. Something on display. She smiled when she was supposed to. Nodded politely. Inside, she felt like a bird caught in the rafters. Fluttering and frantic, searching for the sky.

The conductor gave her a small nod in return. The orchestra hushed and breathed as one. And then, Caroline raised her bow.

The concerto surged around her. Notes flowed like a river; cold, smooth, unstoppable. They pulled her forward, then lifted her into rapids she barely knew how to survive. Her violin sang with a clarity that made the audience lean forward in their seats, made mouths open involuntarily as if in prayer, or shock. But to Caroline, it all felt distant, like hearing music and laughter from the bottom of a swimming pool while drowning.

Everything slowed. Blurred. Feathery images flickered across her mind, brief and brutal. Her mother’s voice, sharp and soft at once, whispering corrections while her tiny fingers missed a note. The snowy landscape on her first day at the conservatory. A dove trapped in the rafters of the practice hall, beating itself bloody against a ceiling that would not let it escape. An endless spiral of voice and song and empty windows and forgotten birthdays and silence alone in a dark room at the end of each day.

And then, applause. Thunderous. Crashing. A wave of it. Silhouettes jumping up and whistling and cheering her name, basking in the light of her talent, wishing it for themselves. Caroline lowered her violin. Bowed. Smiled. Accepted a bouquet of lilywhite roses thrust at her from a faceless stage hand. Her chest burned. Her teeth gleamed in the spotlight.

She felt nothing.

Backstage, the celebration bloomed. People swirled around her with champagne flutes and compliments that landed like soft bruises.

“Radiant!”

“Magnificent!”

“A true vision!”

Someone handed her a drink. Someone else snapped a photo. She smiled. Said thank you. Said she was honored. Said she was so, so happy. She signed an autograph for a little girl who beamed up and said she wanted to be just like her when she grew up. Her feet began to move on their own. She slipped out the door like a shadow and wandered through corridors that smelled of dust, rosin, and time. Past yellowed signs and silent dressing rooms. The lights grew dimmer, and the voices fell away like ash.

She found an old metal staircase and began to climb.

Each flight peeled something from her.

Second floor: the scent of lemon oil and her first violin lesson - her hands too small, her eagerness too big. Her mother’s excitement huge and cutting and dangerous.

Third floor: her father turning away from her pleading voice, drink in hand, his silence louder than any argument could be.

Fifth: her first solo recital. The night she learned that applause was not the same thing as love.

Seventh: a windowless practice room. Her reflection warped in the black gloss of the piano. A scream she swallowed like a bitter pill.

She climbed higher. Higher. Higher. She emerged onto the rooftop.

The city sprawled below her, golden and immense, like a creature half-awake. The skyline flickered in the sunset and for a moment, she imagined it was all on fire. Cars crawled across the skin of the ground like mindless insects with glowing eyes. Laughter rose from the courtyard below.

Caroline stepped forward and removed her shoes. The hard stone beneath her bare feet was cold and honest. It caressed her soles softer than her mother ever had. She stood at the edge. A gull wheeled overhead - wings spread, wide and white and holy against the growing night, effortless and unafraid. Caroline lifted her arms in response. The wind caught her sleeves. Her dress whispered. She imagined herself dissolving. Not falling, not flying, just… disappearing.Like steam. Like silence. Like a song with words long forgotten.

Music had once been her ocean. She’d lived for it. Dived into it. Let it baptize her. But somewhere along the way, its calming waves had grown still. She no longer floated on the surface but found herself sinking, stagnant weight dragged deeper into void with every note. She wasn’t sure when it had stopped being hers. She wasn’t sure when she had started to drown.

Below, someone called her name faintly. Once. Caroline did not hear. She closed her eyes. A memory returned. She was five or six, siting on the hill behind her childhood home. The summer’s evening sky was the color of apricots. Her violin lay beside her in the grass. A small brown bird had landed close. Unremarkable, but it tilted its head and sang a single note: so pure, so true, that her chest cracked open, and she cried. Quietly. No one had known.

She opened her eyes. The wind was stronger now. The city below shimmered like it was underwater. She thought of glass. Of breaking. Of silence. Then she took a breath.

And stepped forward. The gull careened above, lifting and falling on invisible gusts. Perhaps he looked down briefly. Perhaps his cry was for her.