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1018 Words
The doctor’s office smelled faintly of antiseptic and paper, sunlight slanting through half-closed blinds. Baron sat rigid in the chair, his bandaged hand resting on his knee, while the clock ticked far too loudly on the wall.
Dr. Roussel adjusted his spectacles, scanning the fresh set of X-rays. His brow furrowed, then smoothed, then furrowed again. Baron’s heart sank with each pause.
Finally, the doctor set the papers aside and folded his hands. “You’re healing… but not quickly. The strain was deeper than we first believed. The swelling lingers, the tendons are stubborn.”
Baron’s throat tightened. “So? A few more weeks?”
The doctor hesitated, choosing his words. “Months. Perhaps longer. To be safe… I recommend a full year away from the piano.”
The words landed like a hammer.
Baron gripped the armrest with his good hand. “A year? That’s impossible. I have concerts scheduled. Competitions. My career—”
“Your career,” the doctor interrupted firmly, “will not exist if you push yourself too soon. Play before you’re ready, and you may never play again. Do you understand?”
The room seemed to tilt. Baron stared at his bandaged hand as if it no longer belonged to him. A year was forever in music. A year meant audiences would forget his name, critics would move on, another prodigy would rise.
His mother, sitting beside him, reached for his shoulder. “Baron, listen—”
But he couldn’t. The air felt too thin, the silence too heavy. He pushed to his feet, muttering something — he didn’t know what — and strode out into the hallway, ignoring the calls behind him.
Outside, the city of Verschau buzzed with carriages and café chatter, oblivious to his collapse. Baron stood on the steps, the sunlight sharp on his face, his chest burning with anger and fear.
A year.
The word echoed like a cruel refrain. For the first time since he’d begun to play, the music inside him was silent.
---
The application forms were spread across the dining table, paper after paper filled with typed lines and signatures. It was a strangely quiet afternoon in the Blaise household. The curtains were drawn against the summer light, the only sounds the scratch of a pen and the faint ticking of the kitchen clock.
Baron filled in the last blank, staring at the words Université de l’Étoilemont – Department of Informatics. He had never imagined his name there. Until weeks ago, his path had seemed carved in marble: stages, symphonies, applause. Now, it bent sharply into unfamiliar terrain.
His father stood nearby, arms crossed, watching with a mixture of pride and restraint. “Computers are the future,” he said, as though to reassure them both. “A good field. You’ll do well.”
His mother smiled faintly, her hand resting on Baron’s shoulder. “It will keep you busy. And it will give your hand time.”
Baron nodded, though he barely heard them. His chest felt heavy. He didn’t want computers. He wanted music. But Maestro Vollin had said it himself: a change of scene, a different rhythm. Perhaps this was what fate demanded.
Two weeks later, the letter arrived. Thick paper, the crest of the university stamped in deep red. Baron tore it open, eyes scanning the words until they blurred. Accepted.
His parents embraced him. His father clapped him on the back, his mother kissed his temple. They opened a bottle of wine at dinner, cooked his favorite stew, set the table with candles.
But the celebration was muted, restrained. No laughter like before concerts, no phone calls to relatives boasting of triumphs. Just quiet conversation, polite congratulations, and the shadow of what was missing.
Baron lifted his glass, meeting his parents’ eyes. “To new beginnings,” he said softly.
They echoed him. But as the clink of crystal faded, Baron felt the hollowness return. He was grateful, yes. But he also knew that somewhere, in another life, the piano keys were waiting for him.
---
The suitcases were lined up neatly in the hallway, their leather edges worn from years of travel. They had once carried tuxedos, sheet music, polished shoes meant for concert halls. Now they carried jeans, notebooks, and textbooks about algorithms and data structures.
Baron zipped the last bag shut and straightened, the bandage long gone from his hand but the stiffness still lingering. His mother hovered nearby, her eyes bright with unshed worry. His father was already in his coat, ready to drive him to Étoilemont.
“I’ll take you,” his father said firmly. “Help you settle in. It’s a big city, Baron.”
Baron shook his head. “No. I’ll go alone.”
His mother frowned. “Alone? But it’s hours by train. You don’t even know your way around Étoilemont—”
“I’ll learn.” His voice was calm, steady, but underneath it pulsed a current of something deeper. He needed this. Needed the separation. “Please. I want to keep… things apart. Music, college, family. If I bring everything with me, it’ll only feel heavier.”
His father studied him for a long moment, then sighed, recognizing the same stubbornness that had once driven Baron to practice until dawn. “You’re certain?”
Baron nodded. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
There was a pause, and then his mother stepped forward, wrapping him in a hug that smelled of lavender and home. “Write to us,” she whispered. “Even if it’s just a few lines.”
“I will.”
When the train finally pulled out of Verschau Station, Baron sat by the window, watching the countryside blur into streaks of green and gold. His hand rested on his lap, not on a keyboard, not poised to play.
He told himself he was ready. Ready to live a life outside music. Ready to be someone other than a prodigy.
But as the city skyline of Étoilemont rose in the distance, a quiet truth hummed inside him, stubborn and alive: music would never stay separate.
- Writer
