A Silent House

by Enter Madness

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Octavia, Sad
Length: 13137

One year after Vinyl Scratch has passed away, Octavia struggles to cope.

One year after Vinyl Scratch has passed away, Octavia struggles to cope.

Published 2013-05-01 06:10:02 UTC
Last updated 2013-05-01 06:10:02 UTC

A Silent House

The crowd cheered, cries of intense jubilation and excitement flowing from every pony standing or sitting in the audience. Every eye in the house was pointed toward the stage, and the two ponies who stood there, soaking in the attention. Framed by flowing folds of red, satin curtains, the performers remained still, silhouetted in the darkness. Fog rolled out in waves around their hooves, illuminated by multicolored lights hidden just off-stage.

Octavia’s left hoof gripped the neck of her instrument, fine-grained wood smooth with varnish. Her hoof began to idly wander up and down the neck, as it did before every performance, feeling out every groove and bump that had been worn into the cello. She was careful not to touch the strings; with the pickup mounted near the bridge hooked up to an amplifier, even the slightest touch could ruin the slow build that she and her partner were shooting for.

In her right hoof was an equally essential part of the instrument: her bow. The long, gently curving piece of pernambuco wood having been a wedding gift from Vinyl, and a very expensive one at that. It was haired with some of Vinyl’s own tail, and it meant more to Octavia than she could express.

Over the roar of the crowd, Octavia could hear her heart pounding in her ears. The excitement that came with a stage performance was a rush like no other, a sort of anxiousness that had to be filtered and channeled. If she let it take over, she would make mistakes, but if it wasn’t there at all, she wouldn’t be careful enough. It was important, and, most of all, it made performing fun.

She cast a sidelong glance to the left, resting her eyes on the large rectangular object that stood waist high and the pony leaning over it, flicking switches and adjusting sliders with an expert’s touch. Vinyl Scratch was “in the zone,” as she would put it, and Octavia only had to wait patiently for the signal.

There. The first beat, the first resonating bass sound that signaled the start of their performance. Vinyl had triggered it right on time, just before the crowd became restless. Octavia marveled at how well Vinyl could read those ponies, like they were open books in a library.

The sound started slow, a resounding bass that shook the bones of everypony present, but it steadily gained speed until it was the beat to the song that was about to begin. Octavia closed her eyes, letting herself be filled with the sound, feeling it with her ears, her mind, and her soul, waiting for the right moment to jump in.

Then she was playing. It wasn’t an active decision; her bow leapt to the strings of the cello and ran across them, drawing forth a note that echoed from all corners of the room, each speaker grabbing and amplifying the sound across multiple electronic channels and spewing it out across the crowd.

Vinyl steadily increased the complexity of the song, adding beats and distortion to the sound and layering melody after melody on top of one another. It was like she was daring Octavia to keep up with her, and Octavia was more than happy to oblige.

Her hoof became a blur, running up and down the neck of the instrument in furious motions, nailing running arpeggios note for note, switching keys on the fly to suit the other songs Vinyl was implementing, hitting harmonics in the small breaks in the song for emphasis on certain themes. Her bow motion grew more erratic as the song went on, hooked bowings becoming commonplace as she jumped wildly from one note to another, all improvised, all drawing impressed gasps and awestruck whispers from the crowd.

The two mares were perfectly in sync. Neither dropped a single beat, and each time one would introduce a new element to the song, the other would adapt, incorporate it, and build on it in a way only two ponies who had spent inordinate amounts of time together could. It wasn’t rehearsed, which made it more exciting for both of them. They had to trust each other to not leave the other behind, and it worked out beautifully.

Octavia heard the song building to the climax, and she stepped on the pedal next to her hoof, creating a loud distortion effect to accompany the warbling bass that Vinyl had conjured from her own instrument. Octavia built up a tremolo, running her bow across the string in the shortest, fastest motions possible, all while climbing a scale to the final note.

When she hit that note, she pulled as hard as she could and extracted the final sound, which echoed through the hall, fading only after moving through the ears of everypony there. Octavia froze, gulping in deep breaths as sweat ran down her face and tickled her nose.

After what felt like an eternity, the crowd erupted into cheers. They screamed and yelled encouragement, and Octavia let her body relax. Vinyl stepped out from behind her turntables and took a place next to her special somepony. They each put a leg around the other and took several bows, increasing the stomping and cheering to an almost deafening level.

Then Vinyl leaned over and kissed Octavia and the crowd lost it. Octavia was stunned at first, but soon closed her eyes and melted like butter into the kiss. Vinyl had never kissed her on-stage before, and now it was in front of the biggest audience they had ever had. Octavia’s heart sped up like the beat to the recently finished song, but in that moment, there was nothing but her mare and her.

Vinyl pulled back. Octavia was about to complain before remembering where she was, and she opened her eyes. But there was something wrong. The room was silent, and when Octavia looked out into where the audience had been, all she could see was a choking darkness.

She looked back at Vinyl, who was further away than before. The stage was gone now, too; only blackness and the two mares remained.

“Let me go,” Vinyl said as she floated away in the blackness.

Octavia started forward, but Vinyl was moving too fast. “Vinyl, come back!” she called. “Where are you going? Don’t leave me!”

“You have to let me go, Octy, please.” She was getting further away now.

Octavia started sprinting, but no matter how fast she ran, she kept losing ground. “No, please don’t leave me!” She knew in her heart that if she let Vinyl go, she would never see her again. “I love you!”

“I love you too, Octy. Promise me you won’t let our music die.” Vinyl was so far away now, and her voice was so faint that Octavia could barely hear it.

“No,” Octavia said, slowing down. “No!” She redoubled her efforts, but it was too late. Vinyl was gone.

(*)

Octavia shot out of her sleep like an arrow, sitting up so fast that the room spun, taking a moment to catch up with her. She fell back again, sinking into her bed and pillow. The soft materials swallowed her into their embrace, but going back to sleep would be impossible after the dream she had just had. She rolled over and, in her half-asleep state, put her hoof around Vinyl.

Or, at least, she tried to put her hoof around Vinyl. When her reach was met with only empty space, the surprise shocked her mind into a fully awake state, and then the memories came back. Vinyl wasn’t there; she hadn’t been for a year. Octavia sighed and rolled back over.

She swung her legs out over the edge of the bed and hopped off, walking over to the window and throwing open the thick curtains that blocked almost all light from invading the room. She was met with the blazing glare of the midmorning sun, and if she hadn’t been fully awake before, she was now.

On her way to the bathroom, the calendar that hung on the wall caught her eye. The current date was circled in angry red marker with the letters CAM scrawled next to it in hoofwriting that was undoubtedly Octavia’s own. She stared at the letters for a long moment before their meaning registered in her mind: she was supposed to be giving a speech to the graduating class of the Canterlot Academy of Music that day at noon.

She looked over at the clock and her jaw dropped. It was already eleven; she barely had enough time to get ready, let alone eat anything. How had she slept that late? She blamed the curtains; Vinyl always hated being woken up by the sun, so they had bought the thickest curtains they could find.

Thinking of Vinyl put a knot in Octavia’s stomach, and she tore her gaze away from the drapes to go into the bathroom. The shower gave her too much time to think; come to think of it, almost everything gave her too much time to think. She used to play music when she needed to clear her head, but now even looking at her instrument just reminded her of things she would rather forget.

She finished up her shower and toweled off, hoping that her mane would be dry by the time she reached to Academy. When she returned to her room, the clock read eleven thirty. She silently cursed herself for not leaving enough time to eat and made her way to the front door.

As she made her way through the house, the usual memories that accompanied the short journey returned, as they always did. The small tables and the shelves were devoid of pictures; Octavia had stowed away all the ones of Vinyl in the attic.

Outside, the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and ponies were walking the streets, hurrying from one place to the next in the never-ending cycle of daily life. Octavia walked through it like she was in a dream, unconsciously dodging around bystanders and any fallen obstacle that might obstruct her forward motion. For a musician, the rhythm of the city was easy to find, and Octavia was quite the musician.

She was lost in her thoughts until the sound of music drew her from her reverie. She looked up. Ahead of her, standing on the corner, was a pony playing the violin. He had his case open, and citizens would drop bits in as they walked past. A crowd had begun to gather around him.

In the past, Octavia might’ve stayed and listened, and she certainly would’ve dropped more than her share of coins into the case. Now, she crossed the street, putting as much distance between her and that pony as she could. Listening to music hurt too much.

She arrived at the Canterlot Academy of Music with only minutes to spare, rushing through the front door which was held open by a chivalrous young colt. She let out a practiced “thank you” and hurried inside.

The Academy had grown since she had graduated. There was now a new wing, the most recent addition to the school dedicated to one of its most famous alumni. She crossed the courtyard and stopped at the entrance to the new building, looking up. With a shake of her head and a sigh, she crossed the threshold into the Octavia Philharmonica Building.

The room wasn’t hard to find; there was only one class going on at this particular time of day. Octavia took a deep breath just outside the door and put her hoof on it, but then she stopped. She could hear the professor, an old college friend named Crescenzo, speaking on her behalf, as if he were introducing her onstage.

“Octavia Philharmonica, one of the most famous musicians to graduate from this school, quite possibly the greatest living musician in all of Equestria, is coming here to speak to you.” Octavia thought she heard some whispers, but she couldn’t be sure. “Alright, settle down, I know this is exciting, but remember, you’re representing the school she attended, so be on your most professional behavior.”

Quite the introduction, Octavia thought to herself. She hadn’t been given that much praise in over a year. Crescenzo certainly seemed to remember her, even if she had ignored him for the better part of the last twelve months. She took another breath before pushing the door open and strolling into the room.

“And here she is,” Crescenzo said, gesturing toward Octavia with his hoof. She looked just how she remembered him: sandy-blonde coat with a styled, dark-brown mane. “Please give your full attention to Miss Octavia Philharmonica!”

The students stamped their hooves. Octavia let them go on for a bit, but as she was about to speak, she was hit with a powerful sense of dread. She hadn’t even thought of what it would be like to speak about music since her aversion to it developed, and here she was, about to deliver a speech to these budding young musicians.

An urge to run away almost overpowered her, a desire to flee and never return so strong that she found herself glancing toward the door in preparation of sudden flight. Then she looked back at the students, and the looks on their faces rooted her in place.

She saw bits of herself in each of them, the enthusiasm she once had for the auditory arts apparent on every face. With a deep breath, she resolved that, despite her own difficulties with the subject, she couldn’t deprive these students of the opportunity they craved. All she had to do was talk; she didn’t have to mean it. She collected herself and held up a hoof to quiet their applause before beginning.

“Music,” she began. “What is it? Can anypony answer that question? What is music?” A pony in the back raised a hoof. “Yes, you,” Octavia said, pointing to the stallion.

He stood up. “Music is the change in pitch and tone across the audible spectrum to create an emotional response within the listener.” He sat down.

“Technically, you are correct,” Octavia said. She started slowly walking back and forth at the front of the classroom. “But, not the answer I was looking for. Anypony else?” The rest of them glanced at each other and shrugged. She didn’t expect them to know; it was something you only learned with enough experience. Even herself, the great protege, didn’t have an answer for this question at their age.

“Music,” she continued, “is power.” She let that sink in. “Music is the raw expression of emotion and ideas. Ideas without emotions are pointless, and emotions without ideas are dangerous. Music gives us a way to channel both. We can express an idea through emotion, through our sound, and deliver it directly into the hearts and minds of our audience. For those willing, music can open doors that others will never even see.”

She stopped at the front of the room. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Crescenzo watching her with intense interest, but she ignored him. “Ponies did not invent music; rather, we replicated it. Music has existed since the beginning of nature, since the very first birds sang the very first songs, since the rhythm of the steps of our ancestors became dancing, and since the warbling of our voices became our song. We took from the birds, from the rustling of the leaves in the wind, from the calls and sounds of nature, and found a way to repeat them in a way that appealed to our emotions, and our ideas.

“There is music everywhere. There is music in this city, there is music in this classroom, there is even music inside each and every one of you.” She pointed to one of the ponies in the front row. “Your heartbeat.” She pointed to another. “The sound of the blood rushing through your veins.” And another. “The soft wheezing, sighing, expanding and contracting of your diaphragm to allow life-giving oxygen to flow is a beautiful symphony, if only you are willing to listen.

“Canterlot has a rhythm, a song that she sings every day. Yes, there may be variations, but if you listen long enough, you will hear the same melody echo through these streets morning, afternoon, and night. The sound of hooves on pavement, on grass, the rolling of carriages, the twinkling exchange of bits, even the seemingly random conversations of passersby all have a pattern, and they are all components to this song.”

And it will drive you mad if you don’t learn to ignore it.

“There is a quote that I particularly enjoy. ‘Music speaks what cannot be expressed, it soothes the mind and gives it rest, it heals the heart and makes it whole, and flows from heaven to the soul.’ All of these things are true. Music is the best therapy there is, for whatever ails you. If you’re upset, play music. If you’re sad, play music. Whether you’re happy or angry or anxious, play music. Even for those of you who choose not to pursue music as a profession, it will stick with you your entire life, and I promise it will help.”

Now if only I could follow my own advice.

Her words were hollow to her. She was on autopilot, repeating a speech that she had given hundreds of times in dozens of venues, and would repeat a hundred more. She wanted to shout, to tell them that music meant nothing, was nothing, and that it couldn’t help them, it could only bring pain and suffering like it did to her.

She kept talking instead.

“Anypony can play music; you are here because you are exceptional at it. You have proven yourselves to be the best of your peers and now you are being rewarded for it, as you should.” She laughed a little. “I had just as many ponies in my graduating class. Do you want to know how many became professional musicians?” She paused. The answer was two, but did she really want to talk about her? Vinyl, the other one who had gone on with her? “One,” she lied. “One pony went on to become a successful professional musician, who can live simply by doing what they love.”

Or loved.

“I do not say this to discourage you; rather, to compel you. I want all of you to become musicians. I want every single student in this room to surpass me in terms of skill and renown. Don’t let the statistics get to you. You are all capable of achieving what I have and more.”

And what do I have? she thought bitterly. An empty life lived out in an empty house.

She looked over at Crescenzo. “That’s all,” she said, and she turned toward the door.

“Wait!” he called out, scrambling to rise from his desk in time to stop her. She paused, turned back around, and cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes?”

He smiled. “Don’t you want to play for us?” he asked. His statement was followed by a chorus of assent from the classroom.

Octavia gulped. What was Crescenzo doing? Didn’t he know that she hadn’t touched an instrument since...?

“I don’t have my cello,” she said.

Crescenzo waved a hoof. “Way ahead of you. We’ve got one right here.” He looked over his shoulder at the cello case leaning up against the far wall. Octavia was amazed she hadn’t noticed it on the way in.

“I would really rather not,” she said, and she turned back to the door.

“Please?”

Octavia shook her head. “I can’t, Crescenzo. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m sorry about Vinyl.”

Octavia froze, her stomach twisting into a knot strong enough to hold the mightiest ship down in the midst of a typhoon. She thought she was done hearing condolences.

“I know it must be hard for you,” Crescenzo continued, “but it might help. Don’t you think it’s what she would’ve wanted?”

Octavia turned back, very slowly, to face him. She was numb; she always felt like this when somepony brought up Vinyl. It hurt too much to feel.

“You’ve been talking to my mother, haven’t you?” she asked, her tone even and unchanging. Crescenzo nodded. Octavia cursed herself for not being smart enough to withhold the fact that she was speaking that day from her mother. Her mom had always liked Crescenzo, so it came as no surprise that she asked him to speak to her.

Then, Vinyl’s words from Octavia’s dream that morning seemed to force their way into her head. Promise me you won’t let our music die. Is that what Octavia was doing? No matter how much she denied it, she knew that Vinyl wouldn’t want her to stop playing music, to stop creating what they both loved. Maybe it was time to give it another try.

“Okay,” Octavia relented, nodding.

Crescenzo smiled and retrieved the cello. He removed it from its case and brought it over to Octavia, who had pulled up one of the available chairs. She sat down and received the cello without a word, repressing the ill feeling that rose up inside her at the touch of the instrument.

For Vinyl, she thought.

It felt strange in her hooves, almost alien after so long. Her hoof wandered up and down the neck, along the strings and the fingerboard, down to the bridge and back up again. She plucked each string gently, listening for any irregularity in tone quality, but there was none. It was even in tune.

She renewed her grip on the bow in her right hoof and touched it to the string, pausing for just a moment before drawing out a long, somber note. That note bled into another, then another. She played a piece from the vast reservoir of her memory, something slow and haunting, perhaps a funeral dirge in ages past, but now only played for entertainment.

Eyes shut, she played. She just let the music flow from her hooves, filling the room with the song. In her mind’s eye, it was like a light had been turned on in her memories. Each note became an image, each phrase a scene from her past involving the mare she loved, the mare she lost. The melody built and fell, waxed and waned as it flew effortlessly from her hooves, pulling her further and further into her own mind.

It terrified her, and yet she couldn’t stop.

Her bow strokes grew faster and stronger, more emotional, until, with a powerful upbow, the delicate stick flew from her grasp and skittered across the room. Octavia opened her eyes to see a room full of students staring at her, mouths agape in expressions of shock. She reached her hoof up to her face and felt her cheek; it was wet with tears. She hadn’t even realized she had been crying.

Nopony moved for an eternity. Finally, Octavia set the cello down beside her, stood up, and walked out.

(*)

Red. The couch had to be red. Not just red, though; it was the exact same shade Vinyl’s eyes had been. Octavia sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.

She lie on the couch, head resting on the arm, as her eyes pointed out the window. She looked out at the sprawling metropolis that was Canterlot, but she wasn’t really seeing it. She was surreptitiously focused on the actions of the mare sitting in the chair across the coffee table to her left, listening as she rustled paper on her clipboard and waited patiently until Octavia was ready to speak.

They were in a small, clean office, minimalistic in furniture and style choices, the only thing resembling decoration being the impressive medical degrees hanging on the wall.

“I had the dream again,” Octavia said.

The rustling of paper stopped, and Octavia could feel a pair of eyes on her, like they were probing her, searching for any weakness. She always felt like that when she came to see her therapist, like the mare who was supposed to help her found her activity somehow suspicious.

“Oh?” the therapist said. Her name was Doctor Freud. Octavia was never fond of irony. “When was this?”

Octavia pretended to be thinking, but she knew exactly when it had been. “About a week ago.” Six days, to be precise.

“And it was the same dream as before?”

Although she wasn’t looking at her when she said this, Octavia could tell that Doctor Freud was peering over her half-moon glasses like she always did when she asked a question.

Octavia propped herself up on one elbow. “Actually, something was different. This time, at the end of the dream, she told me to ‘promise not to let our music die.’”

Doctor Freud waited for Octavia to continue and, when she didn’t, set her clipboard down and leaned back in her chair. “I see.”

“What do you think it means?” Octavia asked.

“What do you think it means?” Doctor Freud responded.

“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that? Isn’t that why I come here?” Octavia asked, settling back into the couch and fixing her gaze on the ceiling. She had agreed to go to therapy, but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

“I can’t solve your problems for you, Octavia,” Doctor Freud said. “If I could I would, believe me, but all I can do is give you somepony to talk to.”

Octavia sighed, inwardly this time. “I don’t know what it means. Maybe it’s my subconscious trying to tell me to play music again. Maybe she’s still out there somewhere, trying to contact me through my dreams. Is it wrong that I hope it’s that one?” She chuckled. “Listen to me. Maybe I really am crazy.”

“Hope is never anything to be ashamed of,” Doctor Freud responded, “and it certainly doesn’t mean you’re crazy.”

The conversation lapsed. “I tried again,” Octavia said, breaking the silence.

“Hm?”

Octavia turned to face her. “I tried playing again.”

Doctor Freud leaned forward. “And?”

“It didn’t go well.” Octavia’s gaze dropped to the ground. “I was giving a speech, a lecture about music to a class at the Academy. It was the day I had the dream, and I know the teacher. We used to be friends, and my mother had contacted him sometime before I got there, convincing him to try and get me to play. I don’t think I would’ve done it if not for that dream; I just couldn’t get her words out of my head. ‘Promise not to let our music die.’ Eventually, I gave in.”

“What happened?” Doctor Freud asked, having now moved to the edge of her seat. It seemed unprofessional to Octavia, but she ignored it.

“I couldn’t stop thinking of her. It hurt too much, and I had to leave.” She met the doctor’s gaze. The clock on the wall chimed, prompting Octavia to sit up. “That’s it.”

Doctor Freud leaned back again. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

Octavia said nothing, instead walking to the door. She heard the doctor sigh from behind her. “You’ve been coming here for a year, Octavia, and you still don’t want to open up all the way. What are you scared of?”

Octavia paused for only a heartbeat before leaving without a word.

(*)

“I heard you tried to play again.”

Octavia looked up from the meal she was ignoring into the piercing eyes of her mother, Diminuenda Philharmonica. The older mare had aged beautifully; she had light wrinkles on her face, but they conveyed experience, like they had been invited onto her face instead of them forcing their way on. Her indigo mane had a few dull grey streaks, the same color as her coat, running through it.

The restaurant they were in was quiet, just the occasional clink of glass or the scraping of silverware on plates. Octavia heard the music in the noises around her, and she hated it. Everything had music in it, even the sounds of a half-empty eatery, and music only brought pain to the former cellist.

She regarded her mother in silence for a while before answering. “Oh?”

“Crescenzo told me.” She put a hoof on Octavia’s, which was resting on the table. “He also told me you deduced that I was the one who put him up to it. I need you to know that I just want to help you, Octavia, that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Octavia continued to stare at her mother. Why did she always have to bring it up? Every encounter between them played out the same way. They would eat, or drink, or engage in idle chit-chat until her mother had built up enough confidence to breach the subject.

“I’m fine, mother,” Octavia said, pulling away.

“No, you’re not!” her mother almost shouted. She winced and looked around before continuing. “You’re not fine,” she said, quieter this time, “and I’m tired of you telling me that you are. You hardly eat anymore, I almost never see you, and the only time you touched an instrument in the last year it left you in tears. You’re not fine, and I’m sick of you insulting my intelligence by expecting me to believe that nonsense every time you say it.”

Octavia was taken aback. Her mother rarely used such bold words, usually opting to dance around the subject until her listener was forced to infer what her true meaning was. Had she really been counting on her ploy to transform Octavia back into her past self overnight?

Of course, Octavia knew that she wasn’t fine. She told herself that she was, but she never really believed it. She was a musician who couldn’t even bear to look at an instrument most days, let alone her own.

“Have you been seeing Doctor Freud?” her mother asked.

“You know I have, mother. You’re the one who pays for the appointments.”

Her mother nodded. “I know, I just want to hear it from you.” She paused, started speaking, then stopped again. “I think you should try again.”

Octavia sighed. “I can’t.”

“Don’t you think it’s worth at least one more try? Ponies are starting to talk, Octavia.”

“Let them talk.” She took a drink of her wine, barely tasting the liquid as it flowed down her throat.

“Octavia, think about your career. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life in that house, forsaking the music you love? What will you do with your life if you won’t even give music another try?” She paused. “Think about your career,” she repeated.

Octavia took another long draught, draining her fourth glass. She signaled to a passing waiter to bring her more, ignoring her mother’s disapproving stare. A combination of her empty stomach and the wine she was drinking produced the words that came from her mouth next. “Damn my career,” she said.

Diminuenda gasped. “Octavia! How can you say such things? Music is your life!”

“Music was my life,” Octavia corrected. “You said it yourself, ponies are starting to talk. Why not give them something to talk about?” She could barely believe the words were leaving her mouth. She had always maintained in the back of her mind that what she was feeling would pass, that she would be able to go back to playing music eventually, but as those phrases crossed her lips, the reality of her situation crashed down on her.

Was the music really gone from her life? She had devoted almost every waking moment to music. It was what brought her and Vinyl together in the first place, and it was the strongest bond they shared. Whenever anything went wrong, music was always there to help. Now it had become a sinister thing that pulled to the front of Octavia’s mind snippets of memory that were better off buried.

“You already lost that mare, Octavia. Don’t let the music slip away, too.”

Octavia was later thankful for the arrival of the waiter to fill up her glass at that moment, because if that pony hadn’t come between her and her mother, nothing would’ve stopped Octavia from leaping across the table and strangling the older mare to death.

Instead she shuddered, struggling to contain a wild outburst. “How dare you,” she said in a voice that was barely audible.

“I’m sorry,” her mother said, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean that, Octavia. I’m sorry.”

“How dare you bring her into this!” Octavia stood up. She was shouting now. “How dare you try to interfere with my life just because ‘ponies are starting to talk!’” All of her frustration poured out through her words, like cracks in a dam spreading and growing until the wall holding her emotions in check burst. “I’m sorry if my lack of musicality is ruining your reputation, mother, you selfish cow! I’m sorry if the death of the only mare I’ve ever loved has gotten in the way of your life! Can you think of nopony but yourself? You don’t care about my grief, you only care about your social status!”

“That’s not true.” Tears were starting to form in her mother’s eyes. “I only want what’s best for you.”

Octavia slammed a hoof down on the table. She felt disconnected from herself and from her actions, like she was watching the scene rather than experiencing it. She was tired of keeping her emotions hidden, of saying that she was fine when she really wasn’t, and now she was venting every doubt, every pain, and every angry thought that her mind had repressed in the last year.

“You only want what’s best for yourself. You never cared about me, never cared about her; you only care about you, and don’t you even attempt to deny it. I’m sorry I’m not like you. I’m sorry that when the pony I love dies, I can’t just marry the next pony who asks me for the time of day!

“I can’t play without her, mother, and the sooner you realize that, the sooner you can get out of my life. This conversation is over.”

Octavia drained her fifth glass of wine and jammed it back onto the table before storming off, leaving confused bystanders and a sobbing mother in her wake.

(*)

That night, judgement impaired by the alcohol coursing through her bloodstream, Octavia had continued to drink at home. She consumed glass after glass of wine, furthering her descent into emotional chaos.

She was furious with her mother, convinced that she had only been trying to hurt Octavia with her cruel words. Her anger did not halt with her matron, though; it extended all the way to Crescenzo, whose insistence on her picking up the cello again had only opened old wounds; it continued on to Doctor Freud, who forced her to talk about Vinyl week after week, never allowing her respite from her grief; it even stretched to Vinyl herself, an irrational anger at her for leaving Octavia behind at the forefront of the drunken mare’s mind.

All Octavia wanted was to be alone. Was that too much to ask? How hard could it be for everypony else to just leave her be? The only pony that she had ever felt comfortable around, that she could open up to without fear of judgement, was gone, replaced only by bitter memories soured with pain.

Octavia sat in the dark, alone, on her couch in the den. Her eyes were glazed over, fixed on nothing, staring off into the void. Her slow, steady breathing was the only sound that filled the room, the monotonous inhaling and exhaling her only companion in the pitch blackness that surrounded her, matched in its depth only by the darkness inside her heart.

In her right hoof, she gripped a glass filled almost to the brim with a blood-red liquid, swirling it ever so slightly with small, gyrating motions of her hoof. An empty bottle of wine stared back at her from the coffee table, reflecting the emptiness she felt inside. She raised the glass to her lips, drinking the entirety of its contents without even realizing what she was doing.

Her head swam as that final glass of wine pushed her alcohol tolerance to the limit. Her vision grew blurry and she toppled over on the couch, muscles going slack. She heard the a shattering sound as the glass rolled from her hoof, but it seemed far away. Octavia slowly and steadily drifted into unconsciousness.

She had the same dream as usual, with a major variation: she couldn’t hear anything. The ponies in the crowd had their mouths open in perpetual silent screams, the sound and vibration of Vinyl’s beats were absent, and her cello produced no sound regardless of how swiftly her bow sprinted across the string.

Everything continued in this fashion until the show ended and Vinyl started to drift away into the black. Octavia chased, screaming at the top of her lungs, but for no yield; the veil of silence was thick and unyielding.

The dream didn’t end with Vinyl’s evanescence this time, however. As Octavia slowed her pace to a mild trot, the darkness gave way, fading upward from black a shade at a time until she was in a shimmering white hallway. Where before her steps made no sound, the hollow clopping of her hooves on the tile now greeted her.

The hall was bare save for a door at the opposite end. It seemed to stretch on forever, the door never growing any closer, and each time Octavia turned around, she was met with a wall that kept inexplicably appearing just behind her.

An overwhelming urge to reach the door consumed her. She broke into a canter, then a gallop, and finally a sprint in a desperate bid to reach the portal, but her energy ran out before the devilish doorway gave in. She collapsed against the wall, panting and exhausted, and beat her hooves on the ground in frustration.

She buried her head in her foreleg, ready to give up, but her decision to quit was interrupted by a small twinkling sound. She stirred, bringing her eyes up from the floor. There, across from her, where before there had been only wall, was a door.

She stood, went over to the door, and opened it.

On the other side was a room devoid of windows or furniture, save for one occupied bed. Octavia couldn’t see the pony, as it was hidden by a white sheet that covered the entirety of their body. She approached, swallowing hard and watching the form with a wary eye, as if it might jump up and bite her.

There was no movement in the figure; the sheet in front of the mouth was not stirred by breath, no idle shifts characteristic of sleep were present, and the chest did not rise or fall. So why was Octavia so terrified of it?

She clenched her jaw and her fur bristled as she reached for the sheet. She gripped the top portion of the sheet with her hoof and yanked it down to reveal Vinyl. She looked peaceful, serene, like Octavia was looking at a photograph of a living mare, one who was only experiencing the peace of slumber.

A flicker of movement drew Octavia’s attention elsewhere and, when she failed to identify it, she returned her gaze to Vinyl’s face, nearly falling backward with fright as she did so. Instead of thin white eyelids, Vinyl’s crimson eyes stared back at her, unblinking and unmoving. Octavia stood, stunned.

“Why?” Vinyl asked, her voice as hoarse and scratchy as it had been just before she passed.

Octavia couldn’t speak. Her mind was having trouble registering what was happening, and the breeze tickling the back of her neck did nothing to help her concentration.

Wait, breeze?

She wasn’t mistaken; a breeze was blowing through her mane and coat, and she could hear it rustling the leaves of the trees. Looking around, she recognized the scene in a moment, and it made her heart leap into her throat.

They were outside on a small, grassy hill. There were ponies behind her, some in chairs, some standing, and they were all dressed in black. All around, grey stone guardians stood over rectangular plots of land.

It was Vinyl’s funeral.

“Why?”

Octavia looked back down at the source of the voice. Vinyl was in her casket, but she wasn’t dead. Quite the opposite; her chest now moved with the expansion and contraction of her lungs. Octavia didn’t know whether she wanted to hug her or run away, screaming.

“Why won’t you play for me, Octy?” Vinyl asked, voice full of hurt.

The question caught Octavia off guard. “It hurts too much,” she responded, hanging her head.

“Don’t you love me?” Octavia had to avert her eyes to avoid looking at Vinyl’s own.

“Of course I do!” she exclaimed.

“Then why? Why won’t you play for me?” This time, the question came from behind. Octavia spun around and nearly touched noses with another Vinyl. “Why?” the clone repeated.

Octavia looked on in horror as each of the guests became a carbon-copy of her deceased beloved.

“Don’t you love me?” came the question from below her.

“Yes!” she shouted.

The one in front of her advanced. “Please, Octy, please play for me.” Octavia pushed her away and she flew like a ragdoll, knocking over chairs and drawing the attention of the rest of the Vinyls.

They all turned toward her and started marching, making beelines straight for Octavia and chanting their unanswerable questions.

“Why won’t you play for me?”

“Don’t you love me?”

“Please, Octy?”

“I love you, Octy, why won’t you play?”

Octavia retreated, bumping into the casket and stirring the first Vinyl. She let out a yelp as a set of hooves clamped around her waist and yanked her down, attempting to pull her into the casket.

“No!” she yelled, bracing a foreleg on either side of the coffin to halt her descent. Whatever had hold of her, it wasn’t Vinyl.

“Why won’t you play for me, Octy?” the one holding her said into her ear.

“Because I can’t!” The other Vinyls were closing in, surrounding her on all sides and repeating their endless questions.

“Why, Octy?”

“Don’t you love me?”

Octavia could feel her grip slipping as the sun was blocked from her view by the advancing doppelgangers of the pony she loved. She screamed as they reached for her, prodding her from all sides, forcing her down into the coffin with that thing, that monstrous impersonator. She continued to slip, unable to regain any ground, until her right hoof came free and she fell.

The creature held her in a stranglehold, a cruel mockery of a lover’s embrace, while it repeated the questions over and over.

“Don’t you love me, Octy?”

“No!” she bellowed. She loved Vinyl, and no matter how much these things looked like her, they were not the mare she loved.

Her head was forced down into the casket. She could feel the monster’s breath on her neck as it spoke, whispering the questions now and holding her in its claustrophobic embrace. It wasn’t warm; the thing pressing into her was as cold as a corpse, sapping the will and the fight from Octavia’s marrow. The last thing she saw before the lid was closed was ten pairs of empty eyes looking back at her.

A close, a click, and she was alone with the monster.

Octavia started awake, screaming, her mind still half-dreaming, reeling from the intensity of the nightmare. The back of the couch became the monster, the darkness in the den twisting into the darkness of the coffin. She had to get away.

Rolling off the couch, she landed with a crunch on the shattered remnants of a broken wine glass. A cry of agony escaped her lips as the shards cut into her legs, slicing hot streaks into the tender flesh.

In a frenzy she stood, ignoring the pain in her hurry to escape the monstrous thing that still existed in her mind. She sped through the hallway in a fear-fueled gallop, sprinting up the stairs to the second floor. She collapsed in the bathroom that adjoined her bedroom after closing and locking the door behind her.

With her back against the door, she slid to the ground. She started crying, hot tears pouring down her face. Inside her mind, fear, pain, and grief overpowered her cognitive thinking and reduced her to nothing but a conduit for raw emotion.

She didn’t know how long she sat like that, forehooves lying in her lap as they seeped her lifeblood out and stained her coat, tears running down her face to accompany the anguished sobs that wracked her body, and all strength and conviction draining from her body.

Eventually she sniffled, got to her knees and, feeling her way around with her injured hooves, made her way to the bathtub. The crystalline handle that operated the faucet yielded to her touch, activating an outpour of icy liquid. Octavia ran her bleeding appendages under the frigid torrent, sighing with relief as the feeling left them and they became as numb as the rest of her.

Octavia wrapped her hooves in towels to stem the flow of blood and lie down in the tub, cold water chilling her to the bone and preventing her from falling asleep, and settled in, sobbing quietly, for the night.

(*)

The next two weeks were like a stint in Tartarus for Octavia.

Each night she had the same nightmare. She was forced to encounter the Vinyl clones time and time again, and it wore on her psyche. Eventually, she stopped sleeping for fear of the nightmare; she stayed awake for days at a time, her brief forays into slumber always ending with her screaming.

The insomnia did strange things to her mind. One day, she was sitting on the couch in the den and she heard hoofsteps from upstairs, but when she went to check, there was nopony there. She would do things without remembering them, sometimes losing whole hours at a time, only to come back to broken glass, dented furniture, and fresh wounds. Strange visions would dance in her peripherals, she would catch sight of something disappearing just around the corner, or items would seem to move, being in one place one second and another the next.

As the shadow hanging over Octavia grew longer, so too did her sorrow become greater. Then, instead of random hallucinations, they became Vinyl.

In every sound, she heard Vinyl’s voice. In every little creak and groan of the house, in every croak or tweet that forced its way into her ears from the outside world, the world she shunned, she heard Vinyl’s laugh, her cry, her song. There was no escape; the mare that was Octavia was broken, and she lacked the strength to put herself back together.

So she didn’t. She allowed her emotions to consume her, to overwhelm her with their immensity until she was nothing but a husk of quivering depression. For the last year, she had kept her emotions locked up, avoiding thinking about Vinyl and sidestepping anything that could trigger memories of her, and it was finally catching up to her.

She was resting on the couch in the den, her place of solace as of late, when she heard heavy hooffalls from the second floor. She tried to ignore them, to dismiss them as products of her insomnia, but they were incessant, demanding, and unyielding, falling with such force that they seemed to invade her mind and thump on the inside of her skull.

With a cry of frustration, she got to her hooves, wobbling a bit in her weakened state before going to the stairs. The noise grew louder as she climbed, each step of her own echoed by the banging that was coming from above and, as she reached the top of the stairs, from behind.

She turned around and looked down the hallway, only to stop dead in her tracks. Vinyl was standing in the middle of the hallway, stomping on the wooden floor with her hoof. She looked up at Octavia.

“Finally,” she said. “I thought I’d never got your attention.”

Octavia’s mouth opened and closed like a flounder.

“Geeze, what happened to you?” Vinyl asked with a half-smile. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“I haven’t,” Octavia responded.

“And why not?” Vinyl reprimanded, approaching Octavia. “You know you need your sleep, Octavia. Remember what happened last time you didn’t get enough sleep?”

Octavia did remember. It seemed like so long ago, now. The stress, the hallucinations, all the things that happened to her when something kept her awake. This time, that something was her infernal nightmares.

“How are you here?” Octavia asked.

Vinyl stopped right in front of Octavia. “I’m here because you need me, Octy.” Octavia smiled at the use of her nickname. “It’s time to stop this. You need to get yourself back together. I hate watching you destroy yourself, especially for me.”

“I can’t.” Octavia averted her eyes, and when she looked back up at Vinyl, there were tears in them.

Vinyl embraced Octavia, who started sobbing into her shoulder. “You can, Octy. You’re the strongest mare I’ve ever met, and you need to get things back on track.” She pulled back and looked into Octavia’s eyes. “If you won’t do it for yourself, at least do it for me?”

Octavia sniffed. “How? Where do I start?”

Vinyl glanced toward the chord that hung from the ceiling at the far end of the hall. “Start with the attic,” she said. “You’ll find what you need.”

Octavia followed Vinyl’s gaze. “The attic?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but I have to go now, Octy.”

“What?” Octavia said. “But you just got here? How can you leave me again?”

“Oh, Octy, the dead never really leave. They just go away for a little while.” Vinyl leaned forward kissed Octavia’s forehead.

In the next instant, Octavia was back on the couch in the den, opening her eyes. She blinked, then blinked again, trying to make sense of what she had just experienced. It was all a dream, the first she had had in too long that hadn’t been twisted and nightmarish.

“In the attic?” she wondered aloud, recalling VInyl’s words. What could be in the attic, other than.... She gulped. The attic was where she had stored the things that reminded her of Vinyl. Her mind, still warming up out of her slumber, wondered why Vinyl would want her to look there.

She shook her head. Not Vinyl. Vinyl was not speaking to her through her dreams; it was just her mind conjuring nonsense, tormenting her with vague notions of hope. She didn’t want to go up to the attic; it would only make things worse.

She got up, wandered into the kitchen, and poured herself a bowl of cereal. As she ate, she noticed the silence in her house for what seemed like the first time, the nothing that filled the space between the crunching in her mouth. It came as a great revelation; before the last year, the house had never been silent. There had always been music playing, whether it be Octavia’s classical music, Vinyl’s dubstep, or the odd mixtures of the two that the couple loved concocting in their free time.

Now there was nothing, and Octavia could feel it. Almost like when it was too hot, she found herself having trouble breathing. The air grew thinner, not providing as much sustenance to her as before as it transported the silence of the house all around her, mocking her with its indifference.

Octavia’s heart quickened and her whole body grew heated. What was happening to her? She gulped in oxygen like a fish out of water, and her vision started swimming. She needed something to combat the nothing.

Music. She had to get music on. She didn’t care how much it hurt; the silence was suffocating, pushing in from all sides, and she had to stop it somehow.

Taking stumbling steps, she made her way out of the kitchen. Into the hallway, her vision grew red at the edges as she continued to hyperventilate. The silence was squeezing her midsection, stopping her lungs from expanding.

From the hallway to the den, the world started spinning. Her heart raced faster, panic pushing the organ beyond its normal bounds. She spotted the record player in the corner, luckily with a record still in place. She fumbled with the needle before securing it in one of the grooves and slapping the “on” button.

With the grainy intro characteristic of most records, the black disc started spinning. The music started slow, with heavy bass notes that grew steadily faster until one of Vinyl’s synthesized drumlines was layered over it. Then the cello started.

Octavia curled up on the ground, her heart slowly returning to its normal pace and her breathing slowing as the oxygen began to flow again. The music drove away the silence, that was all that mattered. At least, until she started listening.

She recognized the piece instantly. It was the last thing that she and Vinyl had recorded together, just over a year prior. They had listened to it, together on the couch that rested not five feet away from her, only a week before Vinyl had been admitted to the hospital.

Pulling herself up from the heap she had become, Octavia opted instead to curl up on one of the two chairs that sat at either end of the coffee table. It was Vinyl’s chair, the one she had refused to throw out when they got the house. The previous owners had left it behind, and Vinyl had fallen in love with it, insisting that they refurbish it instead of taking it to the dump. Octavia had never been able to resist whenever Vinyl put on her pouty face, and had finally relented.

The memory brought a smile to Octavia’s lips. As the music played, more pleasant memories were conjured up. She tried to shut them out at first, convincing herself that they would be too painful to experience, but they came on stronger and stronger, wearing down her willpower. Finally, she let them in.

Vinyl’s words from the dream entered her mind again. “Look in the attic.” Fueled by her memories and the music that now sounded from the phonograph, Octavia steeled her resolve and stood up. She turned the volume on the music to the maximum, and it accompanied her on her journey up to the second floor.

Then, in the hallway, she stopped. Her eyes went up to the cord hanging from the ceiling and, with a deep breath, she reached up and pulled, revealing a folded ladder that Octavia unlatched and carefully lowered.

A cloud of dust descended from the gaping maw that opened above Octavia, carrying with it the smell of a room that hadn’t been touched in too long. As she ascended, a smell that she could only describe as “old” grew stronger and mustier.

As she reached the apex of her climb and pulled herself into the attic, she paused. It looked exactly the same as it had a year ago, when Octavia, still dressed in black, had taken every picture and memento of Vinyl down, stowed them in boxes, and put them up here where she would never have to see them.

Her eyes fell upon the boxes and her resolve faltered. She wanted to run, to climb back down the ladder, smash the record, and go back to bed. It would be simpler, she reasoned. She wouldn’t have to deal with this, wouldn’t have to feel anything. She could just go back to the way things were before, when she didn’t have to miss Vinyl every second of every day, when she could shun the world and be left alone.

No.

What had that life left her with? A life spent avoiding things she used to enjoy and ponies she used to love? A year wasted forsaking the memory of the mare she loved to spare herself a little heartache? No, it was time for things to change. She was tired of being alone. She was tired of running from this, running from her past and from her feelings like a coward. It was time to dredge up her memories, for Vinyl and for herself.

She crossed the short distance to the boxes, the music from downstairs only vaguely audible now. She dropped onto her knees and seized one of the boxes, pulling it off of the stack of three and placing it in front of her. She took a deep breath; four flimsy cardboard flaps were the only thing separating her from Vinyl. Was she ready for this?

With a self-assuring nod, she opened the box.

The first thing she saw was Vinyl’s face looking back at her from the contents of the container. It was the most recent picture of her, the one that Octavia took while she was working the turntables at one of the dance clubs at which she deejayed. Her left side was bathed in a red spotlight, a color matching her eyes, and her right was soaked in a deep-sea blue. Where they met, a magenta line streaked down the centre of her body, separating the colors while simultaneously uniting them in a beautiful dichotomy.

Her eyes were closed and she had one hoof on the record, while the other was holding a large padded headphone against her ear. She was smiling, the look she always had when she played, the blissful smile that Octavia had grown to love, like she was lost in the music in the most wonderful way, and nothing in the world could touch her.

Octavia smiled, picked the picture up, and set it aside. Continuing her reverie, she picked up the next one. It was of the previous christmas, when Vinyl had surprised her with a newfound ability to play the cello. She had been learning in secret for two years just to make Octavia happy. The picture was taken by a third party, and showed Vinyl and Octavia sitting across from each other in the den, each with their eyes shut, cast in the amber glow of the fire that burned in the fireplace beside them. Octavia remembered the night like it had been yesterday.

Each picture reached further and further back, leading Octavia on a slow journey into the past as she lingered over each new image. This one was a vacation, that one was a family gathering, another just a picture of the two of them together that they happened to particularly like. Each picture brought more tears to Octavia’s eyes, but they weren’t the bitter tears of pain and regret. Rather, they were brought forth by the power of fond remembrance. She was sad that she had lost these moments, but happy to have had them in the first place.

The last picture in the box was the one of their wedding. Octavia wore a flowing white gown with the veil pulled back and draped over the back of her head. Lace criss-crossed all over the dress like railroad tracks, and it was embroidered with crystals along the seams. Vinyl wore a tuxedo, the only time Octavia had ever seen her in one, with a carnation protruding from the lapel and her trademark sunglasses absent from her face. Both mares had their eyes locked on the other, the love practically palpable even through the photograph.

Octavia smiled. The picture had been snapped just before they leaned in and kissed, in the moment before their lips met and they were joined for the rest of their lives.

‘Til death do us part, she thought.

But death wasn’t the end. Octavia still missed Vinyl; she would for the rest of her life. Death may have parted them, but the love remained, untarnished by the cruelty of fate, yet tempered by a year of grief. She had the vague notion that she wished she didn’t have to love Vinyl anymore, that she could let go, just so her heart and soul wouldn’t ache anymore for the one she lost, but the idea was quickly banished from her mind. It took her a year to realize it, but between grief and nothing, she chose grief.

She noticed that the music had stopped, and her ears were assaulted with a loud banging sound resonating from downstairs. Her heart skipped a beat. She replaced each picture with the utmost care and closed the box, sniffing and wiping her eyes before calling out, “Coming!”

No doubt it was her mother, come to check on her and chastise her for the outburst at the restaurant, and Octavia was more than ready to apologize. She was in a forgiving mood, and decided that she wouldn’t hold her mother’s careless words against her.

Octavia reached the door and grabbed that handle, swinging it open to reveal not her mother, but Crescenzo standing in front of her. It took her brain a moment to register, and she just stood there, staring at him.

“Octavia, are you okay?”

She shook herself back to the present. “Yes, quite alright,” she responded. “May I ask why you’re here?”

He looked skeptical. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look like you’ve been crying.” He gasped as he looked down at her bandaged hooves. “What happened!?”

Octavia sniffled again. “It’s nothing, just a little accident.”

He still regarded her. “Your mother told me that you haven’t left the house. I came by to check on you, you know, after what happened at the Academy. She didn’t want me to bother you at first, but now she’s worried, and she thinks you won’t want to see her because of what happened at the restaurant.”

“She told you about that?” Octavia asked, blushing a little. Crescenzo nodded. “Yes, not my proudest moment, I’ll admit.”

The conversation faded, and Crescenzo pawed at the ground with his hoof. Octavia started. “Oh, how rude of me! Please, come in. Make yourself at home.”

That morning, Octavia wouldn’t have let him in. She probably wouldn’t have even answered the door, but something in her stirred with a desire for companionship, for contact of any kind.

She stepped aside and Crescenzo, with a thankful nod, crossed the threshold into the house. All of the curtains were closed, giving the house a feeling of abandonment, like nopony had lived there for years. It lended itself the air of a tomb, like Octavia had shut herself up inside with the intention to remain inside forever. Crescenzo shuddered.

The feeling was soon banished, however, as Octavia blew past her friend, went into the den, and cast the shades aside, flooding the room with warmth and light and restoring life to her abode. She opened the windows in every room, letting the warm summer breeze and the song of the city through the shield she had erected around herself.

Octavia felt better as soon as the light hit her. It was like the warmth seeped into her muscles, sinews, and bones, rejuvenating and invigorating her in a way that she hadn’t realized she’d been missing for the last two weeks.

Or maybe for the last year, she thought.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked, returning to Crescenzo, who had taken a seat on the couch. “A drink, perhaps?” She kicked herself inwardly. She had already drunk just about everything in the house.

“No, thank you,” he responded. “If you don’t mind me asking about it, those tears look fresh. What happened?”

Octavia sat down in her chair, the one across the coffee table from Vinyl’s. “I was just... reminiscing. About Vinyl. I was in the attic, looking at the old pictures I had put away...” She trailed off, lost in her memories.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt,” Crescenzo said.

“Oh, no,” Octavia responded, drawing herself from her memories. “It’s just... I miss her so much. I feel lost, like I don’t know what to do anymore. Today was the first time I’ve been able to listen to music without it making me sick.”

Crescenzo looked like he was on the verge of saying something, but needed a little encouragement. “Is there something you want to ask me?” Octavia questioned.

“Well, you said you were able to listen to music, but have you... um... you know...” He trailed off, like he was breaching a societal taboo.

“Played anything?” she asked. Crescenzo nodded, and she shook her head. “No. I don’t think I could. At the Academy, it just... music was important to us, sacred, maybe the best thing in our lives that we could share with each other. The Academy was too much. I don’t think I could do it again.”

“Well, you couldn’t listen to music before, right? And now you can. I don’t want to pressure you, Octavia, but sooner or later, you have to face this. Why not sooner?”

Octavia’s heart sped up. Could she? Could she risk another breakdown, so soon after reconciling with her memories? She didn’t want to think of what would happen if it went wrong.

But she had to try. For Vinyl, for herself, she had to try.

“I suppose so,” she said before standing up suddenly and leaving the room. Crescenzo remained seated on the couch, awaiting her return.

Octavia made her way up to her bedroom, each hooffall on the wooden stairs deafening in the silence. She passed two doors on her right and a door on her left, going into the portal at the end of the hall that led to the chamber where she slept, the place where her depression seemed to live.

The room was still dark, Vinyl’s thick shades covering the window and barring any and all light from entering. Octavia opened them, bathing the room in the same golden glow that she had allowed into the den. The sunlight fell upon the closet door, and she warily approached the wooden guardian.

She paused with her hoof on the door handle. Pictures were one thing, but music had been her entire life. Music was her emotions and her ideas, and she had no idea how that would manifest once she started to play. The possibilities of what her subconscious might conjure up frightened her; if the mere mention of Vinyl by her mother caused her to spiral out of control so spectacularly, then what would performing one of the most intimate activities that they had shared together bring to light?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

Octavia opened the door and the light fell in a solitary rectangle to illuminate the stoic, magenta cello case leaning up against the wall of the closet. With slow, steady movements, she grabbed the smoothe container and transported it to her bed, laying it down flat. With three clicks, she unfastened the silver latches that held the lid shut. On quiet hinges, the top came away to reveal Octavia’s instrument.

The light glinted off of the varnished body like the evening sun on the surface of a still lake. She felt all along the body, making out every graceful curve with her touch. A deep longing rose up inside her as she realized that it had been over a year since she last saw this cello, that which had been like a dear friend to her. Contained within was everything she had been running from, and it was time to stop and face her fear.

She plucked at the strings, cringing at how out of tune they were. In a flash she removed the cello from its prison, sat down, and leaned it up against her. With mechanical motions she tuned it, twisting the pegs until the pitch the strings produced was sweet and melodic.

The bow was next. It looked strange with the mixture of blues from Vinyl’s tail in the hair, but Octavia wouldn’t play with anything else. It was the greatest display of love anypony had ever shown for her.

Octavia tried to lift the cello onto her back, but the weakness brought on by her weeks of almost no food consumption caused her strength to fail her. She sat back down on the bed, breathe coming heavier than before, and got into playing position; it would be better to do this alone, anyway.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Octavia started playing. It was the same piece she had played at the Academy, a song fit for sadness. The melody came easily, now accompanying her memories rather than dredging them.

She didn’t hear Crescenzo enter the room. Her eyes were shut as she swayed, rocking her form back and forth in hypnotic motions in time with the music. Then, something happened.

The feeling was intangible at first, like deja vu, but rapidly intensified. She felt as if Vinyl were in the room with her, watching her with an approving look that expressed nothing but the purest, most gentle love. Her pain didn’t guide her music; her love did, and it was all the more beautiful because of it.

She was in a trance, swaying and bobbing, facial expressions fitting to what was happening in the music. She looked somber as the notes dimmed and went lower, then her eyebrows raised and she looked up, letting the light illuminate her face when the more lyrical passages came to be.

Then, slowly, ever so slowly, the piece came to an end. Octavia let her bow creep to a halt on the string, sitting like a statue for a long moment before opening her eyes. Crescenzo was staring at her, mouth agape.

“That... that was...” He trailed off before clearing his throat and gathering himself. “That was spectacular, Octavia. I don’t know what to say.”

Octavia smiled. “Thank you.”

“So, what now?” he asked.

Octavia considered the question. What was next? Was she finally done grieving? No, but it was a start. She decided on what the best course of action would be, then looked up at Crescenzo.

“I think it’s time for Octavia Philharmonica to make a comeback.”

(*)

Octavia was aware of everything. Every whisper in the crowd, every spotlight, every drop of sweat that ran across her skin, tickling on its way down. The slight movement of the red velvet curtains, the shuffling of hooves from behind her as stagehooves moved around, making last minute checks. But most of all, she was aware of the beating of her own heart, that steady, immutable drumming that would be the only accompaniment to her solo.

The last six months had flown by in preparation for what was to be Octavia Philharmonica’s greatest triumph. Returning after a hiatus to debut her first ever composition, inspired by the loss of a loved one. It had been the talk of Canterlot for months. Octavia had shut herself inside her house for weeks at a time while composing this piece. She knew it worried her mother and Crescenzo, but she had to make sure it was perfect.

For Vinyl.

She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see Crescenzo, who grinned at her. Behind him stood Octavia’s mother, who had a warm, motherly smile on her face. Octavia went over and hugged her, relishing the cozy embrace.

“You know, I am sorry about what I said,” her mother said.

Octavia’s smile faltered, but then returned full strength. “It’s okay, mother. We were both emotional, and it was over six months ago. Believe me, I’m past it, and I don’t want to think about that awful night anymore.” Her eyes softened. “Please, just let it go?”

Her mother nodded. “Alright.”

“I hate to interrupt,” Crescenzo said, “but it’s time, Octavia.”

“Good luck!” her mom said as she pulled away.

Octavia smiled back at her but said nothing. She retrieved her cello from its resting place and approached the curtain, stopping just inches short of the edge, remaining hidden from the view of the thousands of ponies waiting to hear her play. She took a deep breath, swallowed the lump in her throat, and walked out onstage.

The effect was immediate. The cheers and applause of countless shadowy forms in the crowd assailed Octavia’s ears. She wasn’t used to hearing cheers at an orchestral concert, but she supposed the return of one of the most famous musicians in Equestria had excited some ponies.

She fed off of the electricity in the air. It was like extra oxygen, filling her with power and energy and doing wonders to calm her racing heart. Going onstage, she had the confidence of Crescenzo and her mother backing her up, but now it was just her. Each step was an eternity, the hooffalls on the polished wood overtaken in sound by the relentless applause.

The chair waiting in the middle of the stage served as her goal. She reached it, sat down, and prepared to play. The metal arm of the microphone stand extended from the ground in front of her to the area near her bridge, but now she took the amplifying device and leaned down to speak into it.

The crowd, thousands of ponies of varying backgrounds, went silent.

“Octavia Philharmonica’s Symphony Number One: Vinyl.”

She re-lowered the microphone, set her bow on the string, closed her eyes, and began to play.

She had sampled the funeral dirge for the beginning of her own piece, using the same four low, haunting notes as a launching pad. Then it escalated, becoming a lilting melody that danced across the stage and into the ears of the listeners.

Octavia held the attention of every pony in the hall. They watched with rapturous attention as she moved with the music, her body language accompanying the voice of the cello in a wonderful harmony. She would shake her head rapidly at the musical pirouettes, dip it down at the drops to the bottom string, and rise with the running notes that ascended as if they were reaching toward the heavens.

The notes grew more frantic, as did Octavia’s heartbeat. Rivulets of sweat shimmered in the bright white spotlights as they flew from her shifting form. Her face became a snarl as the notes still grew more intense, hairs on her mane popping out of place here and there whenever a particularly engaging note would come to pass.

She was in a frenzy, like the pony warriors of ages past who would take hallucinogenic drugs before combat. The notes flew forth faster than seemed possible, the melody shifting and writhing from one theme to the next, then to another in what seemed like the same second, crafting a cacophony of music that was somehow dissonant and beautiful.

Just like Vinyl.

The last note echoed throughout the hall, bouncing off the angled walls and through the ears of all present. Octavia opened her eyes, and through the haze of darkness brought on by the glaring spotlight, could see that several crowd members' mouths were wide open.

Octavia stood up, took a bow, and walked off the stage.

Crescenzo and Diminuenda were waiting for her just behind the curtain. She barely heard their congratulations, their words of encouragement and praise. Her emotions still ran high, overwhelming her senses as every thought, every emotion, and every idea she had poured into that piece returned a hundredfold. She felt like fainting. Her heart pounded in her chest and she shut her eyes, but she smiled.

It was the most alive she had felt since Vinyl died.

When she reopened her eyes, Crescenzo and her mother had concerned looks in their eyes.

“Are you alright, dear?” Diminuenda asked.

Octavia took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, mother. In fact, I think I’m more alright than I have been in quite some time.”

“Well,” Crescenzo said, “there’s going to be a party, you know, a gathering for some friends, family, musically and socially elite. Everypony will be expecting you there after such a spectacular performance.”

Octavia set her cello down. “Actually, I don’t really feel up to a party right now.”

“Are you sure?” Diminuenda asked, raising an eyebrow. “I think a little socializing would do you some good.”

“I think I’ll just go home.” Octavia stifled a yawn, a bit shocked by how tired she suddenly felt.

“I really don’t think you should be shutting yourself back up in that house, Octavia,” Diminuenda said. “I’m afraid of what might happen to you.”

Octavia shook her head. “I’ll be fine, mother, really. I just need some rest; this concert has taken a lot out of me, and I’ve been stressing over it so that I haven’t slept properly in a week.” She leaned forward and kissed her mother on the forehead, then looked her in the eyes. “I promise I’ll come and see you tomorrow, okay?”

Diminuenda looked like she wanted to protest. “Okay,” she relented. “But I’ll hold you to that.”

Octavia smiled, then moved over to Crescenzo.

“That,” he started, “was the single most incredible display of musical talent I’ve ever seen. Vinyl would be proud.”

“Thank you, Crescenzo,” Octavia said.

“Well, you deserve it.”

“Not just for the compliment,” Octavia continued. “For everything.”

“Like I said,” Crescenzo responded, “you deserve it.”

Octavia smiled and packed up her cello. As she went to leave, Crescenzo said, “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“I won’t,” Octavia responded.

She bid her friend and her mother farewell and went home.

(*)

Octavia sat on the couch in the den, listening to the music that emanated from the record player in the corner. In her hooves she held a picture, one she had retrieved from the attic six months prior. It showed two mares, a fireplace between them, each playing a cello.

She gazed at the picture, love in her eyes and a smile on her face. She would never stop missing Vinyl; she knew that and accepted it. But there was nothing she couldn’t do with the strength of her memories and the help of her friends and family. Vinyl would always be there for her. When she played, when she cried, when she laughed or tripped or smiled, Vinyl would be there.

Octavia set the picture up on the coffee table and lay her head down on one of the pillows at the end of the couch, loving eyes and smiling lips still angled toward the image.

After all, the dead never really leave. They just go away for a little while.