thick with the musty scent of old wood and metal, a testament to the countless items that have passed through its doors. Dust motes swirl in the beams of light coming through the dirty windows, creating long shadows across the cluttered shelves. The creak of the floorboards under my feet sounds loud in the small, cramped space, a reminder of the many desperate deals and reluctant sales that have taken place here. As I place my violin on the counter, I can’t help but notice the faint sound of an old radio playing a crackling tune, adding to the shop’s somber ambience.
The old man behind the register barely glances at it. “Four thousand to buy, two thousand for a six-month hold.”
“It’s a Bernd Hiller Stradivari!” I protest. Memories flood back—the first time I played it, the way it felt like an extension of my own soul.
He shrugs nonchalantly. “Listen, I don’t know much about violins, but you can get a new one online for fifty bucks, so…”
I want to scream, to tell him that this isn’t just any violin. It’s a part of me, a reminder of a dream that once consumed me. This violin represents my family’s sacrifices. Their unwavering belief in my talent. It was a gift for winning a prestigious musical prize, a triumph that took me to the London Royal Academy of Music when I was thirteen.
“You want me to keep it for you, right?” he asks, pulling me back from my memories. “I’ll need good collateral for a loan. It’s two thousand if I hold it, four thousand if I buy it. You pick.”
Two thousand dollars. It’s a pittance compared to its worth, but it’s what I need right now. The repairs for my car are going to cost nearly that much. At least with this, I won’t have to ask my dad for more money, not after everything he’s already done trying to save my hand. And I can’t pull another favor from Max. He’s been a lifeline, already getting his friend at the garage to fix my car at cost. Borrowing money from him is out of the question.
“You’ll hold it for six months?”
He nods.
“I’ll take the loan,” I say, the words tasting bitter.
As I watch him count out the money, a wave of emptiness washes over me. I look at my violin one last time, tracing my fingers over its polished surface. Maybe I should leave it, forget about it, and move on. But how can I? Every curve, every string holds a piece of my past, a reminder of what could have been, what was supposed to be.
As I take the money, the bills feel as heavy as lead in my hands. Stepping outside, I lean against the cold brick wall of the pawnshop, resting a hand over my heart. The violin is mostly in my past, so why does its absence feel like a gaping hole in my present?
“You always lose everything you love, Evangeline Sinclair. You’re born to lose,” I whisper to myself. Even though deep down, I know it’s not about losing. It’s about letting go, about finding the strength to move forward even when it feels like you’re leaving a part of yourself behind.
Pushing off from the wall, I tuck the money into my bag. As I walk away, a part of me lingers at the pawnshop window, gazing longingly at the violin that holds so many of my dreams. It’s more than wood and strings; it’s a testament to my journey, to the love and support of my family, and to the passion that once defined me.
The next step is clear: finding a job to repay the loan for the violin and cover the interest. The plan is to pick up the car first, then head to the community center recommended by the teaching assistant. Maybe helping others explore their talent will help me heal. Pretending I’ve never played clearly didn’t help, and I started feeling better when I admitted the truth out loud to my friends and roommates.
And maybe it’s not the end of my story with the violin. Maybe it’s just an interlude, a pause before the next movement begins. With each step, I feel a flicker of hope, a whisper that perhaps, in some way, I can still make music—not with my violin, but through others.
The bus ride to Titan Garage feels like a journey to the edge of my hopes. Owned by Sawyer “Titan” Trent, an ex-Navy SEAL like Max, it’s reputed to be one of the best in town. As the doors open and I get off, I brace myself for the inevitable bill, my heart heavy with the weight of this added financial burden.
Sawyer emerges from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. He’s an imposing figure, tall and muscular, with striking green eyes that contrast vividly against his dark skin. There’s an air of authority about him, but it’s his eyes that truly mesmerize. They hold stories of seas and storms, of battles fought and won.
He greets me with a wide smile. “Eva, right on time. Come.” He jerks his head for me to follow, and as he leads me to where it’s parked and starts explaining the additional work he’s done, my heart sinks with each word. The repairs, the replacements—it sounds like a litany of expenses I can’t afford.
I brace for the cost as he opens the car door and hands over a bill.
“There must be a mistake,” I whisper, scanning the bill and the total at the bottom. Fifteen hundred dollars. It can’t be, when, after looking online, I found out that the average cost for the initial work is around eighteen hundred, and with all the additional work he has done—replacing two tires, replacing the brakes… “It’s not enough.”
To my surprise, he laughs—a deep, hearty sound that reverberates through the garage. “First time someone complained about a bill being too low.”
“I want to pay my fair share,” I insist, clutching my purse a little tighter.
“It is a fair share. Family rate,” he says, his tone firm yet kind.
I shake my head, confused. “I’m not family.”
“You are,” he asserts with a smile. “We SEALs take care of our own. And you, you’re Max’s little sister. Maybe not by blood, but in every way that counts. So that makes you our little sister too.”
His words wash over me like a warm tide, filling spaces in my heart I didn’t know were empty. The urge to cry, to let out all the pent-up emotions, is overwhelming. I want to hug him, to thank him for this unexpected kindness, this gesture of belonging.
Sawyer’s understanding, his acceptance, it’s more than a financial relief—it’s a balm to my soul. In a world where I’ve felt increasingly alone, his words remind me that there are still connections, people who care.
“Thank you, Sawyer,” I manage to say, my voice thick with unshed tears. “Thank you for everything.”
He gives me a reassuring nod, his green eyes glinting with a mix of camaraderie and empathy. “Anytime, little sister. Anytime.”
As I drive away from Titan Garage, the weight on my shoulders feels a little lighter. Sawyer’s kindness, his easy acceptance, a reminder that even in the toughest times, there are people who will stand by you, people who become your chosen family. And in that moment, I realize that maybe things are turning in my favor.
The next day, I drive to the community center, hoping that the job Clara mentioned is still available.
The community center buzzes with the vibrant energy of youth and music. The hallway is filled with the cacophony of pianos playing, violins screeching as beginners find their footing, and the soft thud of a distant drum. Colorful artwork created by the center’s many young visitors adorns the walls, bringing a sense of warmth and creativity to the space. The air carries the mixed scents of cleaning products and the faint sweetness of someone’s packed lunch, a reminder of the everyday life that pulses through the building. Children dart through the halls, their laughter and chatter adding to the center’s lively ambience, a place where creativity and community intertwine.
A woman in the first room sees me roam aimlessly in the corridor. “Can I help you?” she asks, her eyes curious.
“Yes, I’m here to see the head of the center about the music teaching position,” I reply, trying to sound confident.
She nods and points me toward an office at the end of the hallway. The door is ajar, and I knock before entering.
The man behind the desk looks up, his expression guarded. “I’m Eva Sinclair. I… Clara, she said…” I close my mouth; maybe it was a mistake to just drop by.
His eyes widen. “Oh! Oh yes, Eva, of course.” He gestures me to the seat across from his desk. “I’m Brandon, the director. So you’re interested in teaching here?”
Nodding, I clasp my hands together to still their shaking. “Yes, I have in-depth knowledge of string instruments, especially the violin.”
He raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “And your teaching experience?”
“I may lack formal teaching experience, but my knowledge of the violin is extensive.”
He leans back in his chair, eyeing me carefully. “Credentials?”
“I won the International Violin Competition of Indianapolis and the Menuhin Competition. I also underwent intensive training at the Royal Academy of Music in London.”
His suspicion grows, and I can’t blame him. With such a resume, I should be hitting the big stage, not sitting in a community center almost begging for a job. “And now you’re here, in a local community center?”
I hesitate for a moment, then slowly extend my shaky hand, showing him my scar. “Accidents happen.”
His eyes soften, and I see a flicker of recognition. He clears his throat, nodding. “I understand.”
Bracing for the usual empty “I’m sorry” I often receive, a surprise comes instead. He offers a look filled with genuine empathy.
“Right now, we could use you three times a week,” he offers. “The position pays sixty dollars per lesson. I know it’s not much…”
Doing the math quickly in my head, the realization hits that it’s enough to lessen the debt for the violin, at least for the moment. “I’ll take it, thank you,” I say, a small smile tugging at my lips.
“And if interest grows, we may up it to four times a week.”
“That’s great. I would really like to do it.”
He taps his pen on his desk, thinking, and then he sighs. “We can do a trial and see how it goes. Would that be acceptable?”
“Of course. You’re dealing with children, I get it.”
He smiles and nods. “See you on Monday. Four p.m.?”
“Yes, thank you.” As I turn to leave, the pressure eases and I breathe better.
“Would you like to see one of our classes in action? It might give you a better feel for what we do here.”
Nodding again, I feel curiosity now blending with my hope. “Yes, I’d like that.”
He stands up and gestures for me to follow him down a corridor.
He stops at the third door and pushes it open, revealing a bright, spacious room where a piano class is taking place. “This is one of our beginner groups,” he explains, his voice low so as not to disturb the class. “We try to make learning as interactive and fun as possible.”
Peering through the glass, I watch the young teacher and her students. “They seem really engaged,” I remark, impressed by the teacher’s animated approach and the children’s enthusiasm.
Brandon nods, pride evident in his eyes. “We’re fortunate to have passionate teachers. They’re the heart of this place. Do you think you could see yourself in a role like this?”
The idea is both daunting and exhilarating, leading to a hesitant admission. “Maybe. I’ve always believed in the power of music to inspire and heal. It would be… different, but rewarding, I think.”
He smiles, sensing my growing interest. “Different can be good. It’s about finding new ways to channel your passion and experience.”
Listening to the piano melody a little longer, feelings stir deep inside my heart. “I think I’d like to try,” I say, more to myself than to him. “To be a part of something like this.”
Brandon clasps his hands together, pleased. “That’s the spirit. I’ll see you on Monday.”
As I walk back down the corridor, I feel a surge of excitement at the prospect of teaching, of being part of this vibrant community. The idea of sharing my love for the violin, of guiding these young minds in their musical journey, fills me with a sense of purpose I haven’t felt in a long time.
Just as I’m about to leave, my attention is caught by a solitary figure in the corner of the hallway. A little boy, no more than six or seven, cradles a small violin in his arms. He’s intently watching a video on a tablet, his brow furrowed in concentration. Something about his quiet focus, the way he holds the violin so protectively, strikes a chord in me.
I approach him slowly, my footsteps quiet on the linoleum floor. “Hey, can I show you something?” I ask, crouching down to his level.
His eyes light up with curiosity as I guide his hands, showing him the proper way to hold the violin and bow. “Now, try pulling the bow across the string like this.”
He follows my instructions, and the sound that emanates is rough but promising. His face lights up with excitement, and a wave of emotion washes over me.
“It’s your first note,” I tell him, my voice thick with emotion. “Keep practicing, and you’ll be playing songs in no time.”
As I stand up, watching him experiment with his violin, a profound realization settles in my heart. Despite the pain and loss, despite the crushing blow to my dreams, music is still a part of me—a part I can share and nurture in others.
Stepping out of the community center, I feel lighter, as if a burden has been lifted. Yes, the violin is in my past, but its legacy lives on, not just in me, but in every child I will teach, every note they’ll play. It’s a different path, one I never expected, but maybe it’s exactly where I need to be.
