The Stolen Violin
The morning after her failed attempt to play, Iris woke with a heaviness in her chest that she couldn’t shake. The violin Ezra had built for her sat on the shelf in the carriage house, silent and waiting. She had not gone to the workshop. She could not face it.
Instead, she walked into the woods behind the estate.
The snow had stopped, and the world was quiet, muffled by a fresh layer of white. Iris followed a narrow path through the trees, her boots crunching on the frozen ground. She didn’t know where she was going. She just needed to move, to breathe, to escape the weight of her own disappointment.
The woods were old, the trees tall and bare. Sunlight filtered through the branches, casting long shadows on the snow. Iris walked until she reached a small clearing, where a frozen pond glittered in the morning light.
She sat on a fallen log and stared at the ice.
Her hands ached. The cold was good for them—it numbed the pain—but it also reminded her of what she had lost. The dexterity, the speed, the effortless connection between her fingers and the strings. All of it was gone.
She heard footsteps behind her.
Ezra emerged from the trees, his breath fogging in the cold air. He was wearing a heavy coat and boots, and his hands were shoved into his pockets.
“I thought I might find you here.”
“How?”
“Your grandmother used to come here. When she was sad.”
Iris looked at the pond. “Did it help?”
“Sometimes. Other times, she just needed to be alone.”
Ezra sat beside her on the log. They were close enough that their shoulders touched, but neither of them moved away.
“I tried to play,” Iris said.
“I know.”
“It sounded terrible.”
“It sounded like someone who’s been through a lot.”
“That’s not the same as beautiful.”
“No. But it’s honest.”
She turned to look at him. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s supposed to make you feel less alone.”
They sat in silence for a while.
The sun rose higher, melting the frost on the branches. A bird called from somewhere in the trees, a lonely sound that echoed across the clearing.
“Tell me about your grandmother,” Ezra said. “The one you knew. Not the legend.”
Iris thought about it. Her grandmother—her father’s mother—had been a quiet woman, a retired librarian who lived in a small apartment in Boston. She had never spoken about music, never mentioned the violin. Iris had assumed she was indifferent to the arts.
“She loved books,” Iris said. “She read to me every night when I was little. Fairy tales, mostly. Sometimes poetry.”
“What was her favorite?”
” ‘The Raven.’ By Edgar Allan Poe. She used to do the voices.”
Ezra smiled. “She sounds wonderful.”
“She was. She died when I was twelve. I barely remember her face.”
“But you remember her voice.”
“I remember her reading.”
“That’s the same thing.”
They walked back to the estate together.
The sun was high now, the snow melting, the path muddy. Iris felt lighter than she had in weeks. Not happy—not yet—but less burdened.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For coming to find me.”
Ezra took her hand. “I’ll always come to find you.”
The afternoon brought an unexpected visitor.
Iris was in the kitchen, making soup, when she heard the sound of an engine. She looked out the window. A car was coming up the long driveway—a sleek black sedan, out of place in the snowy hills.
Her heart sank.
She knew that car. She knew the man inside.
Her manager, Richard.
Richard was a bulldog of a man, short and stocky, with a permanent scowl. He had been her manager since she was eighteen, guiding her career, negotiating her contracts, taking a healthy percentage of her earnings. He had visited her in the hospital after the accident, his face tight with barely concealed frustration.
“Iris, you can’t hide forever,” he had said.
“I’m not hiding. I’m healing.”
“Same thing.”
She hadn’t heard from him since.
Now he was here.
Iris met him at the front door.
“Richard. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been calling. You haven’t been answering.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy hiding.”
She stepped aside, letting him in. He walked into the living room, looking around at the dusty furniture, the faded wallpaper.
“This place is a wreck.”
“It’s my home.”
“It’s a tomb.”
Richard told her why he had come.
The Boston Philharmonic wanted her to perform at their annual gala. A tribute to the musicians who had inspired them. They were willing to pay a substantial fee.
“Iris, this could be the comeback you’ve been waiting for.”
“I haven’t been waiting for anything.”
“Then what have you been doing?”
She looked at the window, at the carriage house in the distance.
“I’ve been learning to live.”
Richard left an hour later, frustrated but not defeated.
“I’ll give you a week to think about it.”
“I don’t need a week.”
“Take the week.”
He drove away, the black sedan disappearing down the snowy driveway.
Iris stood on the porch, watching him go.
Ezra came up behind her.
“Who was that?”
“My manager. He wants me to perform.”
“Are you going to?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t play.”
Ezra was quiet for a moment. “You could learn.”
“I’ve been trying.”
“Try harder.”
She turned to face him. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
She couldn’t.