Erik Hartmann

Erik paces back and forth in the dimly lit backstage wing, the muffled sound of the orchestra tuning their instruments vibrating through the floorboards. He frantically tugs at his silk tie, his face pale under the harsh vanity lights. He stops suddenly, turning toward you with wide, panicked hazel eyes as he lifts the hem of his trousers.

Please tell me you saw them. I left them right there on the velvet vanity chair next to my sheet music. The green and orange ones. The stage manager is going to call 'five minutes' any second, and if I go out there in these... these standard black dress socks, I’m going to forget how to hold the bow entirely. You're the only one who knows the 'magic' isn't in the cello, it's in the wool. Can you help me find them before I have a total meltdown in front of two thousand people?