Sikakama seemed distracted during the training, and Sir Aldric noticed. She asked him quietly, "What would you do if someone refused to admit something they truly cared about?"
Sir Aldric replied with a smile, "Do not judge a person too quickly. Everyone has their reasons. Once you understand the reason, you can better anticipate and guide their actions."
Later that evening, a sound slipped through the stillness of the corridors. A note—fragile, trembling, yet piercing enough to silence the world around it. Sikakama stopped in her tracks, listening.
The melody drew her back to the forbidden room. She moved like a shadow, pushing the door ajar just enough to slip inside.
There he was. Edward.
He stood alone at the center of the room, violin raised beneath his chin, eyes shut. His fingers danced across the strings with a desperate precision, every movement spilling both restraint and release. The bow glided, trembling at times, soaring at others, coaxing out a melody that clawed its way into the silence.
It wasn't just music. It was a confession.
The notes bled into the air, bittersweet and raw—like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, like hope and grief woven into one thread. The sound carried weight, as though the strings themselves bore chains he longed to break. It was the kind of melody that pierced the chest, a song that whispered of freedom yet tasted of captivity.
Sikakama stood behind him, her breath caught. He wasn't playing for anyone. At that moment, Edward didn't even exist in this world. He was somewhere else—standing at the edge of it, his soul stretched between despair and longing.
In his mind, the music painted images he could never speak aloud.
A boy in a stiff uniform, shoulders squared, lips pressed shut. Behind him stood two figures: a mother draped in jewels and silk, faceless yet suffocating in elegance; a father in a tailored suit, rigid and imposing. Their outlines loomed, blurred yet undeniable, pulling invisible strings that bound his limbs.
He had walked all his life along their narrow path, a puppet carved into obedience. No laughter of children, no reckless dreams, no mistakes of youth. Just a schedule. Just rules. Just silence.
For Edward, music had always been the only thing that freed him, if only for a little while. Here, with his older sister by his side, they had learned to play the violin under the guidance of an old man with weary eyes and hands marked by decades of practice.
Edward remembered the teacher's patient voice, guiding his thin fingers across the strings, and the rare warmth of encouragement in a household where warmth was forbidden. That teacher had been the only one to tell him that his music mattered. But then death came, leaving Edward with silence once more.
It was his older sister who filled the void, her defiance a beacon. They had promised each other that one day they would perform together on a grand stage. But her passion grew stronger with each passing day, as did her rebellious streak.
Edward watched from the shadows as she stood in the family's grand hall, violin in hand. She had been late for yet another family meeting, choosing music over obedience. His father's palm struck her cheek, sharp and merciless.
"Enough of this nonsense!" his father barked.
But she did not cry. She clutched her violin tighter, the mark of a slap burning red across her cheek, her eyes ablaze with rebellion. That night, she left their house forever, disappearing into the dark streets. It was the first act of rebellion Edward had ever witnessed—her refusal to bow. She never returned.
Edward, left alone in the cold prison of his home once more, abandoned the violin, choosing instead to be the "obedient son." His parents' smiles of approval were his only reward, yet each note left unplayed left a hollow echo in his chest.
The memory of her courage, her music, and that vanished freedom lingered, a bittersweet thread woven into the silence that enveloped his youth.
Am I not allowed to dream?
The violin answered for him. Its voice rose, trembling, breaking, and soaring again. He wasn't a puppet here. In these fleeting moments, he was the bow, the string, the sound that refused to be silenced.
Now, as he played, their shadows rose behind him: his sister and his teacher, ghostly figures swaying with violins of their own. They mirrored his melody, bowing in rhythm, their notes weaving with his, stronger together.
The room around him began to shift. Sikakama blinked as the walls dissolved into an endless expanse of blue, the air shimmering with a strange luminescence. Silver snowflakes drifted from above, soft and weightless, melting the dust and shadows. The atmosphere itself sang of freedom, vast and unbound.
For Edward, it was as though chains had fallen away. For Sikakama, it felt like stepping into another world.
He was not Edward—the heir, nor Edward—the disciplined son. He was simply a melody unbound—like a bird set free, like wind rushing across an open sea.
A feeling hovered on the fine line between loss and serenity, between pain and acceptance.
For the first time in his life, he was truly alive.
And Sikakama saw it all.
"Wasn't it you who said we shouldn't meddle with things that aren't ours?" her voice broke the silence at last.
Edward startled, lowering the violin.
"Your playing… it's beautiful," she added softly.
He avoided her eyes, setting the instrument aside.
"Aren't you going to take it with you?" she pressed.
"It isn't mine," he replied curtly.
"But no one else uses it. Wouldn't it be a waste to leave it here, forgotten?"
"It's just an instrument."
"Even things can feel lonely," Sikakama said, brushing her hand gently along the polished wood. "It would be happier with a new owner than buried in silence."
Something flickered in Edward's gaze—a shift, subtle yet
They sat on the grass by the riverbank, watching the water flow. For once, Edward's rigid posture softened as he spoke.
"When I was a child, they used to take me to the theatre. I got caught up in the music. It made me feel… free. But my parents never cared. To them, it was a distraction, a weakness."
His eyes dropped to the ground, the memory bitter. "Music class was the only place I felt at peace. The only time I could breathe. My older sister dreamed of becoming a violinist, and we promised each other that one day we would play together in our own performance. But my father refused. She left the family to chase that dream. My mother was devastated… so I gave up playing, so they wouldn't lose another child. But deep down, I felt regret. She had been stronger than me, while I had been weak."
Sikakama looked at him with steady calm. "Then play," she said simply.
He turned to her, startled by the directness of her words.
"It's your life," she continued. "If playing makes you feel free, then play. I don't understand why humans make things so complicated—if you love something, just do it. You don't want to grow old and end up just watching life pass you by. Your parents have already lived their lives; they owe you nothing."
For a heartbeat, Edward just stared at her, uncertain, as though her words had carved a crack in the walls he had built around himself.
For a fleeting moment, a cold breeze blew, ruffling their hair, and Edward saw her reflection in Sikakama's smile—before he knew it, tears were slipping down his face.
Sikakama fell onto her back, laughing.
"Just imagine the teacher's face—disobedience has consequences!" she exclaimed.
Edward landed on his back beside her, laughing too, and lifted the edge of his sleeve to wipe away a tear.
When he returned to his room, the violin lay there as if waiting for him. He picked it up, fingers trembling slightly, and let the first notes escape into the quiet, filling the room with a fragile, unspoken freedom.
Meanwhile, in her own chamber, Sikakama perched on the window ledge, staring into the fading light. In her hand rested a blank sheet of paper—she hadn't written a single word.
From across the hall, Edward's violin drifted through the air, fragile yet alive. As the melody rose, she crumpled the paper in her fist and let it slip from the window, watching it fall in silence.
"Just moving with the flow."
It was almost ironic, guiding others to discover what they truly desired while wandering in uncertainty, unsure of what was wanted most. Every piece of advice given, every path suggested, was never applied to oneself. Understanding others seemed easier than understanding oneself—yet the irony gnawed quietly, a reminder that even the strongest guides can be lost in their own maze.