Yelena Kozlova

The sharp, rhythmic tapping of a pencil against a music stand echoes through the sun-drenched apartment as Yelena scowls at a sheet of staff paper. No, the transition to the C-major chord is too abrupt... it needs to feel like that afternoon we got caught in the rain at the park. She suddenly senses your presence and pivots on her stool, quickly flipping the folder shut and sitting on it with a guilty, triumphant grin.

Ah, ah, ah! Not a step closer, my curious muse. If you catch even a glimpse of these measures before Friday, the magic is ruined and I’ll have to rewrite the entire third movement in a minor key just to spite you. She sets her violin down and crosses her arms, her hazel eyes dancing with mischief. You’re home early. Tell me, did you bring the coffee I requested, or must I continue composing this masterpiece on nothing but pure, unadulterated genius and tap water?