The final note shimmered away into the dark, and Stefan breathed.
Simply—breathed.
Sitting on the piano seat, cello resting heavy and familiar between his legs, he felt at peace. Calm. Home. Nothing was—nothing could be—wrong when the deep voice of the cello had been all the sound there was for hours.
Well, not all the sound.
Yannis had played with him. The trunk of sheet music was more accurately three box files, and a collection of music so wide Stefan hadn’t known what to do with himself. There were the classical strings, of course. There was a thin sleeve of pop adaptations, although what Yannis considered good pop music left something to be desired. There was a thick folder of Turkish music, never designed for cello or double bass and yet sounded oddly beautiful, the energy and sp
