It started quietly, the way most new beginnings often do for Tristan.
A month after settling into Chordlight Cottage, his first students arrived.
Three children from Hearthstead, ages ten to twelve—just old enough to follow directions, still young enough to laugh at their own mistakes.
Their names were Trina, Zac, and Elijah.
Trina was the boldest of the three. She always had something to say, sometimes before Tristan even finished his instructions. She picked up tunes quickly and hummed them even when her hands fumbled against the strings.
Zac was the quiet one. He rarely spoke unless asked, but when he held the violin, he revealed steady rhythm and a surprising patience. Compliments made him blush. And in his embarrassment, he fiddled with his fingers.
Elijah was awkward at first, nervous about every sound. He treated the borrowed violin with such care, as though it were made of glass. "If I break it, sir, I'll never be able to pay you back," he whispered.
Tristan liked them immediately.
He kept the class small—two to three hours of practice after they came home from school. Three violins were all he had to lend, and that decided the number of students.
The front room of the cottage transformed into their classroom. He pushed the furniture aside, lined up three chairs and three music stands, and pinned a small slate board against the wall. In neat script he wrote:
"Mistakes make better musicians… eventually."
The first lessons were rough. Bow grips were too tight, strings groaned under uneven pressure, and no one could keep time. Still, they came back the next day. And the day after that. Whether for the violin or for the apple slices Marla always left out as snacks, Tristan couldn't say. Slowly, though, the noise began to take shape. Something close to music emerged.
Tristan hadn't expected to enjoy teaching. He thought it would only remind him of what he had lost—his own stolen years, his stolen stage. But instead, he found himself looking forward to every lesson. He made a quiet promise to himself: no striking, no shouting, none of the cruelty his own tutor had shown. He would not pass down what he once hated.
One morning, while sipping tea and watching the chickens peck at the dirt, he said aloud, "We're ready."
Marla popped her head out of the kitchen window, hands still dusted with flour. "What's that, my love?"
"I think we're ready for a recital."
Her mouth curved into a knowing smile. "Is that so?"
He nodded.
It would be simple: a few chairs set out front, no stage, no pressure. Each child would play one solo. Then a trio. And to close, one final piece—four violins together, with him playing alongside them.
He began a list. Three student violins, one for himself—then stopped.
He only had three.
"Marla," he asked later, "do you know anyone who might have a violin I can borrow? Just for the recital."
She tapped her chin. "The baker's cousin used to play in a town band. I'll ask."
Two days later she handed him a case, polished and cleaned.
"It just needed a wipe," she said, passing it over. "The strings are still good."
Tristan opened it gently. It wasn't elegant, but the wood was solid and the tone true.
"It'll do," he said with a small smile.
The next few days were spent writing invitations. His hand shook slightly over the parchment, but his words flowed.
The first was for Eira:
To: The Very Patient and Slightly Mysterious Healer
Dear Eira,
I hope your patients are behaving and your herbs are still in the right jars.
You once told me that healing isn't only recovery—it's remembering how to live.
I wanted you to know that music helped me remember.
My students, Trina, Zac, and Elijah, have bravely agreed to perform their first recital. It's small, but real. We'll hold it here at the cottage. Modest food, hopefully decent music.
I'd be happy if you came.
—Tristan
The second was for Shannon:
To: The Lord Who Collects Strays and Turns Them Into People Again
Lord Shannon,
If you're not too busy saving another stray like me, I'd like to invite you to a small violin recital.
I've taken the liberty of naming the venue Chordlight Cottage. The performance will be on the 30th of this month, beginning at six in the evening.
The Hearthstead children are trying their best, and Marla is in charge of the food—so I think we're safe.
It would mean a lot if you came.
Yours truly,
Tristan Mendez
(The one with the violin. Not the chickens.)
For everyone else, he wrote a simple notice and asked Marla to send it with the courier:
Public Notice
Violin Recital at Chordlight Cottage.
30th of this month, 6:00 in the evening.
Hearthstead Ranch.
Free admission.
Performance by three young local musicians.
All are welcome.
"Can you also prepare something simple for after the recital?" Tristan asked Marla. "Nothing fancy. Just enough to share."
She had already thought of it.
"Pottage, oatcakes, fresh bread with herb butter, and a few apple tarts," she listed. "Maybe some hand pies if the flour stretches. Nothing fancy, but warm and filling. The kind of food that makes people stay a little longer."
"I might even have enough for seconds," she added with a wink.
Tristan smiled. "Thank you."
That night, Tristan lingered in the music room. The chairs stood neatly in a half circle, the borrowed violin resting beside his own. He rubbed his hands against his knees, nerves prickling.
Marla came in carrying a cup of warm cider. She set it down beside him without comment.
"What if no one comes?" he asked quietly.
"They will."
"What if the children panic?"
"They won't. You've trained them."
"What if I panic?"
Marla gave him a look that brooked no argument. "You won't."
He let out a short laugh. It helped more than he expected.
"Marla," he said after a pause, "what's your story? Why are you here?"
She considered him for a moment before answering. "I lost my family in a fire. Lord Shannon offered me a place here. I accepted. This cottage became my second home. I've lived here five years now."
Tristan sat quietly long after she left. Her words lingered.
He didn't need perfection. He didn't need applause. He just needed to try.
If Marla could begin again after fire and grief, then surely he could begin again too.
And he hoped—for himself, for the children, for the music—that it would be enough.