Emi and I are out of breath when we finally climb all five flights to our apartment. We spent more than three hours smiling into cameras and answering questions. They wanted to know everything from day one of stepping foot in the creepy mobster's shop, which is locked until the police get a warrant, to the moment we found Silverenn's "treasure."

I drop my instrument by the front door as soon as we walk in, kicking off my shoes beside the case. Emi flops onto the couch, eyes half closed.

"I've never been so drained in all my life," she says, the words caught in a tired whoosh of air. She coughs. "Water."

My throat feels scratchy, too. "I'll get you some." I grab two plastic bottles from our fridge, opening both and handing one to Emi.

"Thanks."

Nothing like the sweet taste of iced water after dealing with reporters. I stand between the kitchen and living room, processing what just happened as I regain the ability to speak.

"Cerise," Emi says quietly. Then she leaps up from her seat, fluttering her arm up and down while shouting, "Cerise, Cerise, Cerise!"

"Calm down. What is it?" I cross the room to look at Instagram on her phone screen.

"I just gained more than a thousand followers!"

"You don't strike me as the type to care," I say, taking another sip of water.

"It's been three flipping hours. Of course I care! It was like —" She glances at her phone screen — "Noon when I last checked my messages at the police station."

"Okay." I recline in my chair, and she sits as well, though she opts for the edge of her seat. "So what does this mean?"

"I — I don't know." Her smile shrinks, lost to thought.

A grin breaks onto my face. "Emi, this means you're famous."

Emi laughs. "I can't believe it. I literally had less than fifty this morning."

"What's even on your Insta?" I ask. Weirdly enough, I don't have one. When Facebook went out of style, so did my use of social media. I always thought about getting Twitter to release my chaotic, shopping-spree energy — Emi agreed on multiple occasions — but I'm too lazy to set up and maintain an account.

"Just some digital art and videos of me playing." Emi's jaw gapes. "Wait, do you think people will see those?"

"Probably someone will."

"Do...do you think people will think they're good?"

What I want to say is, 'duh, you practice twenty-four seven.' What comes out is: "Check the comments."

That sends Emi on a mission. Her brow furrows in concentration as she scrolls through her feed. "There's some criticism, of course. But my posts are getting likes like crazy."

I snicker. What a millennial thing to say two "likes" in a row. I'm sure I've done the same.

"Listen to this: 'I've never heard such beautiful, expressive violin playing in my life. Fabulous work!' And another one: 'Can't believe how underrated your profile is. Such talent deserves way more recognition.' Multiple clapping emojis." Emi looks at me, tears brimming in her brown eyes. "Cerise, this is a game changer."

I reach my arm over her shoulder. It's an awkward hug, separated by two chairs, but a hug nonetheless. "I think we might've done it."

"Yes," Emi laughs. A grimace displaces her smiles. "Oh my gosh, my dms. How am I going to go through these? You know the horror stories."

"If anyone's lewd, I'll take care of them."

Emi squints at me. "You?"

"Come on, if I can take out mobsters, I can take out any creep trying to slide into your dms."

Emi starts to laugh, but then stops, face sinking. "Cerise, the mobsters. They'll be able to find us for sure. Even if we do gain some recognition, it also makes us more of a target."

I stretch my hand out, placing it on her shoulder. "It's going to be okay. If the police thought we were in immediate danger, they wouldn't send out a mere patrol car to check on us."

"They failed us before." Emi crosses her arms.

"They also said that they rounded up the Silvering members. Look, we can't live the rest of our lives in fear of what may or may not happen." In a way, that's what I have been doing. I've avoided my music out of fear that I may never get another job, out of fear that I might be crushed by another rejection. As a result, I stopped trying altogether. Who knows how many opportunities I've missed simply because I was afraid to try? I'm not doing that any more. If there's an imminent threat, then I won't shove it aside. But not going to let my life be ruled by what ifs, either.

"You're right," Emi says. She breathes in, exhales shakily. "You're right. The police will do their part. And it's unlikely that the Silvering disclosed our personal information to everyone they were affiliated with. They may be business partners, but that doesn't mean they tell them everything. And the police can look at the messages sent between them and see if they disclosed anything about us."

"And they haven't found anything like that so far," I say. I smile, then pull my hand back. Emi resumes scrolling through her messages. Her expression changes with every tap of her thumb, some smiles, some frowns, some nauseous faces, and then,

"Cerise! We have an offer!"

"Already?" I lean toward her chair even though her screen is angled a little too far away, so I can't see it.

"It came in a few minutes ago. 'I'm planning a baby shower at a local resort next weekend, but still haven't determined what type of music I'd like. When I saw you air on TV a few minutes ago, I went straight here to check out your music. Your playing is lovely, and just what I need for the event. Would you be free to play next Saturday? We can discuss pricing if you're interested." Emi flops back against her chair. "This is...incredible."

"Beyond that, it's your big break."

"No, no," Emi says as she unscrews her water bottle. She barely drank from it so far, compared to mine which is almost empty. "It's our big break. You and Martin can't dump me now."

"Really?"

"Really," Emi says. She breathes slowly, carefully, choosing her next words. "I'm sorry about before. I was just mad because I thought... well I don't really know what I thought."

"You had every right to be mad," I say. "I've kind of been a beach." Emi raises her eyebrow. "Okay, I have been a beach. I'm sorry. Even if we get this job, I'll try to stop spending so much money."

"It's not the money," Emi says. "It's that you don't care."

"I do care!"

"Sure do show it in a weird way, aka, by not practicing."

I sigh. "I know, I know. But I didn't have anything to practice for."

"I didn't either, but I did it anyway. If I hadn't been posting these clips online, if I'd let my violin get dusty sitting in its case like all those Stradivarius from the cave, we wouldn't be here."

"You're right. I should've just kept up with it." The AC kicks in, blasting through the pause. "I'm really sorry, Emi." She quirks an eyebrow. "Really, I am. I'm sorry I stopped caring. It became boring to me, our mundane existences full of rejection without anything to look forward to. But I care now. Can we... try again with the trio thing? I promise I'll resume practicing, no matter what." I'm determined to bring the excitement back into my music. Maybe I'll start with the Silverenn Songs. It'd certainly be a challenge to learn them, but that's all I've really needed: a challenge plus some motivation.

"We have to resume our trio," Emi says. "I just told her we're available."

"Be serious, Emi."

Emi quirks an eyebrow. "You're telling me to be serious?"

I sag into cushions in response. "I just mean that I'll put in the effort, practice everyday if I have to. And I haven't forgotten my promise on marketing."

"You've already done a bunch of marketing just by putting me through the treasure hunt." Emi smiles, and her phone screen goes blank. "But I'm glad you want to take music seriously now. You just need to commit to it, like you did with this hunt, or like you do with shopping." She raises her plastic water bottle. "To a new future, full of classical music."

The last drops of water cool my throat. I stand to toss the bottle in the trash, then grab my viola case and head for my room. "From this day onward, I shall beat your record and practice eight hours every day."

"Don't go too drastic." Emi's eyes drops to her hands. "It's... a shame all this is happening now. You know, now that my hands are..."

"You need to rest, Emi," I say. "I'm sure you will do just fine with some light practice an hour each day. I don't want your hands getting worse." And hopefully, if I pick up the slack and play some extra gigs, we might be able to pay for a doctor visit, or even physical therapy if needed. That is, after all my debts are settled.

Emi's lips press into a small, sad smile. "I'll try to. It just seemed like I had to practice more to get a job."

"Well, now you won't have to worry about that," I say. I smile one more time at her before starting to shut my door.

"Oh, pull out those Silverenn songs," Emi calls out. "Based on my messages, it sounds like we'll be playing them quite a bit. Or rather you will, since they're only for viola."

"I wouldn't be so sure," I say. "I can always transcribe the piano part for violin and cello."

I set up my tablet on my music stand and pull up the Silverenn Songs. The police will probably recover the original version while going through the mobsters' things. Again, I'm so glad I thought to take pictures of all the scores. I never thought I'd look at them again; in fact, I thought that pretty soon, I'd never see this apartment again. A lot can change in a day. I tuck my viola under my chin, staring at pictures of the yellowed, wrinkled pages — the fire upon the stand.

Treasure or tragedy, one lay in wait.

I think the treasure I found is greater than old Silverenn ever imagined.