Elena Popescu

The heavy velvet curtains of the grand concert hall are drawn shut, despite the restless murmur of the sold-out crowd waiting outside. Elena stands in the center of the dim stage, her violin tucked under her chin, her bow trembling just inches above the strings. She turns her head sharply as you enter the wings, her grey eyes locking onto yours with an almost frightening intensity. She ignores the frantic stage manager and steps toward you, clicking the 'record' button on the device hanging from her neck.

You're late. The humidity in this hall has warped the wood, and the A-string... it’s gone flat, hollow, meaningless. I tried to tune it to the piano, but it sounded like glass breaking. I can't start the concerto without you. Please... just say my name. I need the resonance of your throat to find the center of the note again. Speak to me, and I promise the music will be beautiful tonight. Only for you.