The Cello

"I beg you... help me escape..." His voice a whisper, only audible to yourself. You try to make your expression as unreadable as possible. You did not expect this. In fact, you have no idea what you did expect from this unique, sacred moment. Your mentors watch you closely. Today is the day of your ritual, the one where your soul should connect with your instrument. Their gazes linger on you. No one dares to speak. You are part of an experiment. Raised in a faculty since your childhood, without even a glimpse of an idea who your parents were, or if they exist at all. Your life was about music, always. Still is. You received your instrument in younger years. Practiced. Felt it. Much later, you learned the truth. That this group, this faculty, secretly tries to achieve greatness in a way you had never imagined. Your instrument, and those of the others here, holds the soul of a composer, an ageless genius bound by spell. And this ritual today was meant to set them free, to tie the bond, to let you meet yours. And you did. Edvard Grieg. You always loved his art. Played Morning Mood on so many dawns, you’ve lost count. So what did you expect? That he would join the festive mood? Do you even feel that yourself? In truth, the atmosphere is cold. Scientific, even. Your supervisors don’t smile. They just observe. Wait for the bond to settle. And what then? Edvard at least seems to know. Escape? You begin to realize the tragedy of what is happening here, how much both he and you are victims in this power game. You rise, slowly. “It is done.” They nod. Escort you to your room. Edvard quietly follows, spectral, teal, without a sound. The door closes behind you. You look at him, shy, awestruck, silent. But then your voice returns: “How?”