Had she been kidding herself all those years? Had she really never had potential to be anything more than an amateur?
Eva ran her finger over the cellos; the wood was cold and smooth. She inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of wood, oak, spruce, and polish. They should make a diffuser that smelled like this. This she’d buy, not the overly perfumed ones everyone seemed to have plugged into their walls these days.
She wasn’t sure why she was in the cello and violin store; she’d somehow felt compelled to come — for what, to what, she didn’t know. She just felt an undercurrent of restless energy and wanted to release it somehow, and now she was here.
She wasn’t sure what her next steps should be. Alana and Shaindel Rochel had opened her eyes — maybe too much. They made sense, though; she had a lot of questions to answer.
A cello caught her eye. The store had an area where customers could try out instruments, with a small selection of bows and a chair. On a whim Eva lifted the cello out of its anchor. The instrument was heavier than she remembered it being. She sat down, centered herself and her posture.
This one’s in print. Some of our best stories live in the magazine — subscribe to get Mishpacha every week.
