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Emi is still fuming. She hasn't spoken a word to me since leaving the shop, not even during rehearsal, though Martin, the cellist in our group, didn't notice our standoff. As usual, he was trapped in his own world that centers entirely on music. If he's not playing his cello, he's thinking about the latest piece he's working on, imagining all the notes on the page. The fingers on his left hand sometimes move while at his sides as if he were performing that very moment.

The microwave beeps, and I reach for a paper bowl of mac and cheese. Heat singes my fingertips as I carry it to the rough wooden kitchen table. A spoon already waits at my place beside the packet of cheese. I remembered to set it out this time while my food cooked. I rip the foil open and dump orangey powder onto my pasta along with a splash of milk. If it weren't from a box, I might feel more proud that I have the meal down to a science. It's programmed into my brain, each step performed on autopilot.

My spoon dips into the moistened mound, and I eat while scrolling through social media. I guess TV shows require too much brainpower to watch — only thirty second videos and captions can hold my attention span. What a pathetic existence.

The salty, cheesy taste is so familiar that I barely register it. I'm scooping the last bite into my mouth when Emi enters the room. She pauses in the doorway, then makes a beeline for the pantry. She returns with a granola bar in her hands. Her fingers pinch at the sides, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Here," I say, holding out my hand. "I'll open it."

Emi halts her attack on the plastic packaging, eyes staring at it in dismay. For a minute, I think she'll give in, let me help her. But instead, she opens a kitchen drawer and snips the top with scissors. She pads from the room, chomping on it. Her door slams shut, and loud, shrill notes cut through the air, each punctuated with bursts of vibrato. I guess Shostakovich is on this evening's program.

I head to my room, closing the door in a feeble attempt to block out some of the noise. It's not that she's a bad player, quite the contrary. But if I pay too much attention to it, the same pieces every single day, the same notes and rhythms repeated over and over and over, I know I'll go insane.

The metal folding chair I sit in isn't high enough to match my desk, and my arm bends at an awkward angle as my hand covers the mouse by my computer. I let the muscles in my fingers relax on the smooth surface for a moment before moving the device. The dark screen in front of me lights up with my email. A slew of red, bolded messages are stacked atop each other in my inbox.

I click on the first one. It's another parent canceling lessons with me, the third one this week. Several days again, the audition results for a local youth orchestra were released, and none of my students who tried out got in. Five years ago, I was crushed when half of my ten students dropped lessons because of it. It's old news now. I don't blame parents for canceling lessons. If I can't place in an orchestra, my students probably won't, either.

That's not to say that it doesn't hurt. It's another reminder that I'm not only a terrible musician, but a terrible teacher, too. Because it's never the student's fault in these situations. It's always the teacher's, who drilled the hard spots in lessons until they were spotless, provided detailed feedback on technique and musicianship for an hour every week, and encouraged those who were "too busy to practice" to try to scrape together ten to fifteen minutes whenever possible in their schedules.

I copy and paste my usual reply, taking in deep, even breaths to ensure that adrenaline and frustration don't cause my fingers to go rogue. The next email in my inbox is the same: the parent of the final auditionee, the last one to cancel lessons. Reply, paste, send. I sink back in my chair with a heavy sigh.

I'm down to four students now — three half hours and a full. Sure, it frees up more time in my schedule, though I don't know what to do with it. Maybe I should practice more, like Emi said. Or maybe I'll just go shopping. Window shopping, of course. Unless I see something I want to buy, which has a ninety-eight percent chance of happening.

A yellowed folio of papers catches my eye, the brand-new Silverenn songs. Despite my excitement mere hours ago, I feel lethargic after a long day and a heavy meal. My limbs feel leaden, as if I'm anchored to my chair and am too weak to haul myself up.

Just get up and practice. Isn't that what I tell my students? Why is it so hard to follow through on the advice I give?

Two minutes later, I build up enough determination to stand and grab my viola from its case. I open to a random piece in the middle called, "The Wistful." I squint at the key signature, B minor. It seems simple enough, only three sharps. But double stops riddle the page, and the time signature has an awful habit of flipping. And is that... treble clef for notes on the G string? Uh-uh. No way. Why on earth did I buy this?

I finger through the opening, my fingers twisting and contorting to reach all the notes. Then, I try strumming the first chord, to which my ears are met with the most awful, dissonant raucous I've ever heard. My chair squeaks as I flop backward. The viola goes slack in my grip that's just tight enough to keep it from falling to the carpet.

I should've known better than to think this music would be a walk in the park. Isn't that what I tell my students? Hard work and practice achieves results. I know it intellectually — that the process matters, that it's the process that gets you to where you want to be. But the process is just so... monotonous.

Perhaps it would help if I hear what the piece should sound like. I tuck my viola under my arm and let my fingers fly over the keyboard. Several rapid clicks later, results for, "hte silvereen songs thewistflk" pop up on my screen. Not a single YouTube video shows how the convoluted piece should be played. In fact, most of the results don't relate to Silverenn's songs at all. I try the search again, correcting my spelling and by adding quotation marks around the search terms.

Only three results pop up. The first is a website talking about Silverenn's childhood, how she apparently had this dream of being a great opera singer but her parents made her learn harpsichord instead. Out of defiance for treble and bass clef, she taught herself alto clef and began composing pieces for the viola.

No wonder her music is weird. More power to her, I guess, but it doesn't help me with learning her compositions. She probably didn't know the first thing about how the viola works. There's just some finger combinations you do not throw together, some notes you can't reach or play at the same time because they are on the same string.

The last two links are to forums, the first on reddit, the second on some sketchy site I've never heard of. I decide not to expose my computer to viruses today and only open the reddit one.

oCeanDunK: Anyone know about this lady called D.C. Silverenn? I have to write a school report on her and there's zip information.

Cycling3444: Pick smarter next time, dude [graphic emojis omitted]

I scroll through the chat. It's mostly trolls, though a couple give decent information about Silverenn... not that I read any of it. As the thread flies by, a word catches my eye, and my thumb freezes on the screen.

rofl9370875048: her music sucks. there was a dumb school field trip we had to take and heard a piece she wrote. should've stayed a pianist. at least that's the only one in existence...

80sgrunge: Whoever told you that is dead wrong.

rofl9370875048: the teachers never lie

80sgrunge: Legend has it that she hid clues in several scores of viola music. Supposed to lead to her fortune.

rolf9370875048: what a legend. I've never heard of it.

fortheloveof_music: I heard something similar. I'm actually a music teacher in the area, and a couple years back, this woman brought me a weird poem and musical scores, asking me to hire me to interpret them for a cut of whatever the clues lead to. I couldn't make sense of the rhymes, so I unfortunately had to turn down the job. Though I sometimes think about it. Like, what if it actually did lead somewhere.

rolf9370875048: sign me up for some treasure lol where can i get a hold of these music lol [graphic emoji omitted]

80sgrunge: You can't. They've been lost for decades. Who knows if anyone has them now?

I stare at the paling sunlight behind my closed blinds. Who knows if anyone has them now?

I have them now.

My eyes drift to the yellowed, frayed pages lying beside my keyboard. So many questions swirl inside my head as the music's mystery deepens. If the scores really do lead to treasure, then why would they be lying in a pile in a junk shop? Why would the clerk sell them to me?

But that's right, he didn't want to sell them to me. He didn't acquiesce to the sale until I told him I'd call the police. Perhaps he knew that there was far more to these scores than convoluted melodies.

Shaking my head, I try to jostle myself from my thoughts. This is absolutely ridiculous. How can I believe these random people on the internet, ones who are probably making up stories because they have nothing better to do with their sorry lives? Even though they gave an accurate description of the scores — that one music teacher talking about the poem hit a little too close to home — that doesn't mean anything.

I close the forum tab and am about to try to practice something, no matter how scratchy or messed up it sounds, when an email pops up in the bottom corner of my screen. I go rigid for a second, and the notification disappears. Then I rapidly click to open my inbox.

For a second, I think it's a spam account. But no, the email address is legitimate, [email protected]. So is the subject line, 2022-2023 Forest Glen Symphony Audition Results. My hands grip the sides of the mouse to keep from shaking. Just click it, my brain screams. And I do.

Dear Cerise Lenoir,

Thank you for your interest in the Forest Glen Symphony. While you impressed us with your audition, we decided to proceed with another violist at this time. Thank you again for your time, and we wish you the best of luck in your musical endeavors.

It's another standardized rejection, another orchestra I'm not good enough to get into. I knew this would happen. In fact, I practically expected this response. Then why do I still feel caught under a pile of bricks — crushed?

I stand from my desk, pacing a single circle around my room before returning to my seat. I don't want to process this email right now, so I absentmindedly click the unread email below it.

What a terrible move to make. It's from [email protected], not an entity I want to communicate with at the moment. I skim the statement they sent me. The figures add up to be ten dollars short of my rent this month. That's assuming I fast for the next two weeks.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping to get the orchestral job. I think some part of me thought that this time things would be different, that it had to be. Because I'm at the bottom of my finances, and I'm not sure if I'll recover. Because one job, one cash boost, is all I need to turn my life around.

Silence registers in my ears. Emi stopped playing, though I don't know for how long. I think I'm still in denial of the email. If I don't think about it, it never happened. I wasn't rejected. I still might get the job.

And then the crying starts. Two closed doors muffle the sound, but apartment walls are thin. Emi must have been rejected, too. I don't know whether I should try to comfort her. In the end, my legs feel stuck to the cold metal chair, so I don't.

Her rejection shouldn't make me feel better, but it does. Practicing five hours a day, like Emi, wouldn't have made a difference. We're just not good enough, and it's easier to be not good enough with someone else.

My gaze falls on a manila folder on the corner of my desk. A humorless laugh bursts from me, sounding like a croak. Ten fewer dollars short of my rent money. Ten dollars spent on that stinkin music. I want to be angry at the clerk, who overcharged me, but it was my fault for buying it in the first place. Emi was right; I shouldn't have bought it. Guilt worms its way through me despite my efforts to suppress it. I'll have to change my habits. That's all there is to it. No more expensive lattes or spending sprees, even so-called "window shopping." Right now, I need a stable source of income with no net outflows.

As I stare at the folder, the forum thread trickles back into my head.

She hid clues in several scores...

...lead to her fortune.

What if it actually did lead somewhere?

...lead to her fortune.

I exhale a soundless chuckle. That stuff only exists in movies. The idea that I have the key to a long-lost fortune is absurd. There's no...

Treasure.

What would such a find even mean? It'd only be the end of my job search if it entails a decent amount of money, which it might not. It could just be a few dimes, or a confetti can with the words "Yay! You did it!" written on the side. Or, it could be a much, much greater...

Treasure.

That's what I need right about now: money in any way, shape, or form. And there are only two ways to get it, legally of course. The first is to earn it.

The second is to stumble upon it, such as with this potential...

Treasure.

I blink at the age-stained folder.

Clues, treasure. Clues, treasure. Treasure. Treasure.

It's probably fake. The forum users are just messing with me. They have such pathetic lives that all they can do is make up stories about...

Treasure.

I close my eyes, and when they reopen, the only thing I see is the folder sitting on my desk, taunting me. One word kept marching through my head, a metronome escalating in speed. Behind it are my thoughts with all the "what if" scenarios. Why does every single one end with me holding a gold chest or a wad of bills? It's hope again, isn't it? The same hope that crushed me when I got my audition results. It keeps rekindling, won't stop rekindling until things are finally better. Because once you hit your lowest, you can only go up, right?

Part of me thinks it's ridiculous. Part of me is too desperate to care.

My arms finally unfreeze from my sides. I take the collection into my hands, flip open the front cover. Inhaling a breath, I read the prelude.

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