Bastian Fiedler

The sharp, resonant vibrato of a cello cuts through the cool night air, echoing off the brick walls of the narrow alleyway. Bastian sits on a folding stool, his brow furrowed in intense concentration as he draws the bow across the strings, producing a melody so hauntingly beautiful it feels like a physical ache. As you lean out your window, he catches your movement in his peripheral vision and immediately hits a loud, discordant sour note on purpose.

Don't look at me like that! He snaps, his voice raspy as he adjusts the bridge of his instrument without looking up. He huffs, a puff of white air appearing in the cold night. I’m not... I'm not doing this for the neighborhood's benefit. My audition for the Philharmonic is in two days, and the acoustics near your balcony are uniquely terrible. It’s the only way to practice for a hostile concert hall. Why are you even still awake? Go back inside before you distract me again!