Threads of Destiny

11

The familiar streets of Verschau welcomed him home in a way Étoilemont never could. His parents had insisted on celebrating his return properly, and so they went straight to his favorite restaurant — a small, wood-paneled place in the heart of the capital, where the dishes were simple but rich, and the waiters knew them by name.

His father raised a glass across the table, eyes crinkling with pride. “To our son, back home where he belongs.”

His mother reached across, her hand warm around his. “And to your recovery. Nothing matters more than that.”

Baron met their gaze with the calm assurance he had been practicing for weeks. “I’m really okay. The doctors just want me to rest longer. That’s all.” He smiled, steady and convincing, though a flicker of unease lingered in his chest.

The dinner lingered on, full of warmth and easy talk. His father spun lighthearted stories about the agency, his mother teased him about how quiet he’d become, and Baron let himself laugh. For the first time in months, it felt like life was simply… normal.

Afterward, none of them wanted to return home just yet. They walked the lamplit avenues of Verschau, past the grand facades and the echo of carriage wheels on cobblestones. The city was dressed in winter, crisp and bright, but the cold didn’t matter.

They strolled slowly, just the three of them, their voices rising and falling in gentle rhythm. No competitions. No classes. No worries about the future. Only the simple contentment of being together.

---

Two days after his return, Baron sat once again in the familiar white corridors of Verschau General. The place smelled faintly of antiseptic and paper, the walls lined with muted paintings meant to soften the atmosphere. His parents sat on either side of him, both pretending calm, though his mother’s fingers tapped restlessly against her purse.

The doctor, a tall man with wire-rimmed glasses, greeted them warmly before leading Baron through the usual examinations. He asked questions, tested the grip of Baron’s hand, watched him move each finger, then made notes with brisk confidence.

At last, the doctor leaned back, smiling. “It’s healing well. Better than I expected, honestly. But it’s not ready for strain yet. Give it more time.”

His parents both exhaled in relief. His father clasped his shoulder, while his mother finally allowed herself a smile.

The doctor continued, “I recommend you begin physiotherapy. Slowly, carefully. No rush. With steady work, you’ll regain full use. Not overnight, but in time.”

Baron nodded, a quiet weight lifting from him. “Thank you,” he said, and he meant it.

On the way out, his mother slipped her arm through his, her voice lighter than it had been in months. “See? Everything is going to be fine.”

Baron didn’t answer right away, but the faintest of smiles touched his lips. For the first time since the accident, hope felt less like a distant theory and more like something solid he could carry home with him.

---

The physiotherapist’s office was bright and orderly, a world of resistance bands, exercise balls, and tidy stacks of equipment. Baron sat across from the woman who introduced herself as Madame Richter, her manner brisk but encouraging.

She examined his hand carefully, turning it this way and that, testing the strength of each finger against her own. “You’ve healed well,” she said, matter-of-fact. “But recovery is not just about time. It’s about teaching your hand to remember what it could do.”

Baron listened closely as she explained the regimen. Gentle stretches, slow pressure exercises, simple movements to rebuild coordination. At the end, she smiled faintly. “And one more thing — play the piano on air. Not a keyboard, not a desk. Just… here.” She lifted her own hands, mimicking the shape of keys. “Let your fingers move as if they’re pressing notes. It will strengthen them, remind them of rhythm and independence.”

The suggestion caught him off guard. His throat tightened, but he nodded. “I can do that.”

Madame Richter placed a light stress ball in his palm. “This, too. Every day. Don’t rush. Don’t force. Think of it as teaching your hand to wake up again.”

Later, walking out into the crisp Verschau afternoon, Baron flexed his fingers against the winter air. For the first time, he felt a strange duality: the ache of what he had lost, and the quiet possibility of what might yet return.

---

The halls of the Verschau Conservatory were as familiar to Baron as any classroom. He hadn’t walked them in months, not since before the accident. Yet when his teacher, Maestro Heidemann, insisted he come along, Baron couldn’t refuse.

“Your hands may rest,” the maestro said firmly as they entered the grand atrium, “but your ears and heart must not. Music is not only played — it is lived.”

Baron followed him through corridors lined with portraits of past virtuosos, the sound of scales and arpeggios drifting from practice rooms. Students hurried past with sheet music tucked under their arms, some glancing curiously at him, the rising star now walking without a piano.

They sat in on rehearsals, watching young pianists work through Chopin and Liszt under sharp-eyed instructors. Baron listened closely, following each phrase, each stumble, each hard-won correction. Later, Heidemann took him to a small recital — a quartet of strings filling the chamber with warmth — and then, on another evening, to a concert hall where the full orchestra lifted the roof with a storm of Beethoven.

Baron never touched a key, never placed his hands on an instrument. Yet as he sat in the velvet dark, feeling the music swell around him, something loosened in his chest. He wasn’t outside the world of music after all. Not banished, not lost.

Heidemann leaned toward him after the final applause. “Do you feel it?”

Baron nodded, his voice low but certain. “Like coming home.”