(2) Andante

Spring has come once again to the quaint town of Ponivyle, the place I was born and raised. The strange arrangement of the letters in the name confuses many, but rest assured, it's pronounced exactly how it's spelled.

Ever since the incident, I've lived with my uncle. He's a kind man who doesn't have any expectations of me, only to live righteously.

I'm just a student now. I study, eat, sleep, and repeat. I might go to college, I might continue helping my uncle out at his coffee shop like I've been used to doing for a while, whichever is more convenient — though I know he wants me to pursue the former and is willing to pay for further education, I don't know if I could burden him like that.

After all, I have no aspirations now.

The child prodigy soloist Asher Winterfield died with that spring day six years ago.

I am now average by all assessments, with no particular skills or interests.

Such is life. Such is how life will continue until I'm dust.

y=-1x

This is the expression for a line that decreases in height, y, for every x value.

Perhaps nothing could best describe me now. This is the line that now defines the path of my life. Every x is a day in the chapter of my story, and every y is a further decsension into the unknown.

...

At least, that's what I thought.

But spring had other ideas for me.

It was another beautiful, wretched day. Ponivyle was known for it's pleasant climate during most seasons, and this made it very attractive for many. Some locals say the weather has been maintained since ancient times by powerful winged creatures, but I don't know where I heard that from.

The wind tousled my hair and pressed the fabric of my clothes tightly against my skin, making a prominent outline of my wiry frame. Annoying. If there really are any little magic ponies stirring the air in my town, I'd appreciate if they could at least leave me be...

The last day of my 3rd year of high school had come to an uneventful close, and the remainder of my day was almost exceedingly free. With my uncle retiring the shop for a week to prepare for a grand re-opening, I find myself with more and more free time nowadays. Again, such is life. Ever since the incident, vacations have been more troubling to me than when school is in session. Not knowing what to do with yourself can be a worse cage than the toughest iron-clad prison bars.

That being the case, I opted to take a walk around town before returning home. My bag was light, so it wasn't nearly as much of a hassle as it would be on a normal school day — after all, the only thing it contained was a clean yearbook with no signatures or notes. I left the campus before anyone could approach me with that intent.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. My sneakers make a dull noise against the pavement as I made a detour from my usual route home. Wouldn't be much a walk around town if I made a beeline for my house, after all.

Downtown would be too noisy, and I'd like to sit down...

The park it was then. A place I normally avoided, but on a day like today, where the finality of school put a particularly weightless spring in my step, I felt it was fine to make an exception.

That feeling was a mistake. I felt a mixture of regret and deep disgust hit my gut at once as soon as I set foot on the brick path into the gardens. However, I swallowed both my spit and my memories as I moved forwards.

It was then that I heard it.

A sound so sweet, I nearly mistook it for the fragrance of the roses.

Music.

Whose? I needed to know. My pace quickened, first to a power walk, then a jog, then a full sprint.

What was this feeling? My heart was racing like I had run a thousand miles. And as it beat fast, I felt it fracturing in certain places, not knowing which emotion to feel, how to react, what to say, what to do... except find the source of that precious, beautiful sound which had evaded me for so long.

I remembered the song being played. Prelude from Bach's Cello Suite. It was one of the first songs I had ever learned, and the one that taught me how to play in second position... I could hear it, I could hear it, I could hear it!

I can hear it.

I could hear the notes of the cello! Every note was being played in my mind with a hand on the string and another on the bow, in quick sweeping motions...!

I rounded the corner, nearly tripping over in my haste, and saw her.

Black hair, long and lustrous that danced in the wind filled my vision. She swayed gently as she played, letting the wind I so despised carry her like a masquerade with each note and phrase. Her pale skin was like a canvas, being painted by the colors of the grass and flowers and sky and sound.

A girl who couldn't have been much older than me stood in a clearing with no instrument I've ever played nor performed alongside in my life...

A recorder.

That's impossible. I heard a cello. I know I did — how could I possibly make that kind of mistake? But the more I listened, the more it became obvious.

I didn't hear a cello.

I never heard a cello. I merely pictured it in my mind and replaced the notes to fit, because it was being played so true to the original rendition. I had deluded myself.

Dumbfounded, both by my own foolishness and the incredible prowess of the girl who stood before me, I could only stand and watch until she finished. Her Prelude finished with a high intensity section of joyful repeating notes and measures, and ended on a triumphant final note, just as it's written in the score. As she released her lips from the tip of the recorder, the image hit me again of a bow leaving the string in a gesture of grand finality.

This girl performed Prelude to such a degree of finesse and beauty with a recorder that I couldn't even begin to compare it to any cellist I had ever met in my life.

Completely taken aback, I felt my weight shift towards one side—the wind, again— and stepped squarely on a nearby twig. An audible crack filled the air as I froze in panic.

The girl turned her head sharply in my direction.

Her eyebrows raised once, then lowered. Her face betrayed no expression, but I could see the ends of her mouth curling up as her eyes fell upon me.

And she opened her mouth to speak—

"Where's my applause?"

...

"I..."

I wasn't sure what to say to that. Part of me was still in shock. Her emotionless smile against that colorful park painted a picture that I would need weeks to fully analyze.

Still, I needed to know.

"Who... are you?"

The face I didn't recognize but so dearly felt drawn to.

Though her smile widened, her eyes remained the same. Wide, discerning, opaque, as if looking both at me and through me at the same time.

"A famous violinist once said this," She let the arm with the recorder fall to her side as she turned to completely face me. "Music can transcend words."

She wore an expression on her face I couldn't decipher. Rather, I could not align her words with the emotions she could have been feeling in that moment to any capacity.

"Still don't know who I am?"

I gulped. The feeling of not wanting to disappoint her was overwhelming, but it couldn't be helped.

"N... no."

Her smile faltered slightly. "Well," she spoke slightly under her breath, "that's to be expected."

The black-haired girl cleared her throat, and started walking towards me in long, confident strides, causing me to take a step back reflexively.

"The best musicians always did live the most tragic lives, didn't they? Chopin, Beethoven, and the rest..."

She stopped right before me. A mere few inches was the distance between my face and her's.

"Octavia," she spoke clearly and commandingly, as if she had my heart in the grip of her fist. "Octavia Melody."

"Try not to forget it a second time, okay?" Another smile... but this time, her eyes smiled followed in suit.

Beautiful.

I couldn't help but think that.

Not just aesthetically. Though her face was well proportioned and cute with piercing lavender eyes and long eyelashes, and her hair gorgeously lush, and her white dress showing a figure with curves in all the right places... what made my heart beat faster than anything was the sound that still rung in my ears. Her music. Her Prelude. Not Bach's.

Octavia Melody.

She was dazzling.

Bright enough to make me want to avert my eyes.

She is spring itself.

...As for me? I couldn't begin to describe the look on my face in that moment.

And like a big lumbering oaf, I simply replied,

"Oh."

Author's Note

Andante: Meaning a walking tempo or walking pace; a moderate speed.

For those who would like to hear Bach's Prelude on recorder as it's described above, refer to this link.