She was a mere five years old, a serious gleam in her coal black eyes and skin a stark pale against straight, short black hair. A singular mole adorned the tip of her cheekbone. She did not take pleasure in company, but rather sat alone by the window, eyes closed with the impression of one immersed deep in philosophy.

Her parents were concerned for her, as she rarely displayed signs of joy, or companionship like any other of her age. She said very little and never wept either. It was not until her mother returned home one day with a long black case that her interest perked up.

“What is in there?” She said quietly, as her mother slid it onto her old oaken desk.

“A violin, honey,” the parent replied, unzipping the case and lifting the instrument out and apprehensively plucking a string. “I thought I would begin some lessons soon,”

She was speechless. Her mother did not comment, as this was fairly regular. But she could only think about how beautiful the instrument was that rested on her mother’s inexperienced shoulder: the elegant scroll of varnished gold, the long slender bow string with opaline horsehair, the ebony tailpiece, intricately carved with subtle borderline floral designs. Her mother tentatively lifted the bow to the strings and slid it along, creating a cacophonous screech which made the both of them flinch. Her mother rested it back in the case. “Maybe I’ll wait until after my first lesson,”

“Could I try it?”

She was surprised to hear the question roll off her tongue, but she longed for the feel of the smooth chin rest on her cheek and the cylindrical wooden bow underneath her short fingers.

“Oh...” her mother frowned. “Sorry, honey, I don’t think so. You might drop it,”

She fumed silently but said “Alright,” and plodded up to her bedroom where she sat in her regular position, feeling the weak sunlight on her eyelids.

She waited for mother and father to depart for the grocery store, then crept back downstairs where, it seemed, the violin laid in wait for her. She picked it up, and suddenly the pieces fell into place as the bow slowly began to glide across the taut strings in a haunting melody that she somehow knew from her head. She had the feeling that she had written it long ago. She closed her eyes in joy and smiled for what was one of the first times ever at the timeless beauty of this instrument. She was so caught up in it, that she didn’t even notice ,half an hour later, her parents push open the front door in awe at the gorgeous tune that uttered from her musical abilities and mutter to each other:

“It’s Mozart,”