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I chose Vivaldi.

Specifically, I chose the piece that dismantled me in the first week of first year, right here on this stage, in front of every single one of my super-competitive peers. The piece that had Julian Thorne in the second row clapping with that infuriating smirk, while my violin bow scraped helplessly across the bridge. The suffocating silence that followed my failure that day was the loudest thing I had ever heard in my life.

I chose Vivaldi’s Winter on purpose. I wanted to prove a point to myself and everyone else here that I could actually perform it.

I am going to play it again, and this time, it is going to be different. It is going to be brilliant.

“Better,” Jamieson says from the front row of the empty auditorium. “Much better.”

We work through the piece section by section. This is what we do. We have been doing this for the last thirty-six sessions across thirteen gruelling months. It is the patient work of a teacher who does not tell you that you are wonderful and doesn’t need to, because the corrections she gives are worth more than the compliments. She doesn’t waste words. She says what she means, and then we move on. It is one of the things I respect most about her.

But today, every correction requires a monumental effort and as the minutes tick by, the anti-inflammatories I swallowed this morning begin to lose their edge. A dull, throbbing ache radiates through my wrists.

Yet, at some point—I am not sure exactly when—the physical pain begins to blur into the background. I stop thinking about my solo performance. I stop thinking about the last time I stood in this hall and what it cost me in first year.

“Let’s run the full piece,” Jamieson says, her voice cutting through the hall as she looks down at her score. “Miss Vance.”

I lower the violin slightly and look down at her.

She continues. “The last time you performed Winter in this hall, something happened that was unfortunate. Only you know what happened that day and what it cost you.” She pauses. “What I am going to say is this. The girl who stopped playing mid-phrase on that day is not the musician standing in front of me today. I have watched you become something different over the course of the last year. I want you to know that before you play.”

A lump forms in my throat, hot and unexpected. “Thank you, Professor.”

“You are welcome,” she says simply.

“From the beginning?” I ask, tucking the instrument back under my chin.

The wood presses against my shoulder, sending a sharp spike of pain down my arm, but I lock my jaw and push it down

The icy, pulsating opening of Vivaldi’s Winter fills the grand auditorium. The acoustics of the hall are flawless, allowing the shivering notes to open up and echo in the high-ceilinged space that was built for exactly this kind of drama.

The staccato is sharp and precise. Every single note lands exactly where it is supposed to.

More than that, it feels genuinely cold. As the development arrives, I don’t tense my joints—I fight my body’s instinct to protect itself. I breathe through the agony, allowing them to loosen, to relax, and to simply let the music flow. My left shoulder argues with me violently, the way it always does, the joint grinding in a way that makes my stomach turn, but I keep pulling the bow.

I will not be defeated by this piece, again.

Somewhere, the pain stops mattering entirely and is replaced by the sheer, soaring sound echoing in the space.

I play the final note—release it—and lower my violin bow.

My chest heaves, my breath rattling in my throat. Jamieson does not speak immediately, which is highly unusual for her. Her pauses are usually purposeful, but they are rarely this long.

I wait, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Shit, was it that bad?

“That,” she says softly, her voice eliminating the silence. “Was it.”

Three words. Three words from Professor Jamieson after a year of blood, sweat, and secret tears over a piece that had thoroughly broken me. Three words, and the heavy doubt in my chest vanishes completely.

I can do this.

I swallow hard, blinking rapidly to back the sudden sting of tears.

I actually did it.

Jamieson stands, closing her score with a definitive movement. Her work for the day is done.