đŒ eine kleine nachtmusik || maestro || OPEN
It was late, but that didnât stop Maestro from setting up in the study, staff paper splayed on the desk before him and a mug of coffee close at handâthough not close enough to risk spilling on his work. In stark contrast to anyone unfortunate enough to walk in on the young man when he was poisoned, he seemed utterly consumed by his work, melodies flowing seamlessly out of his pencil and onto the paper in the form of notes and markings.
The music, thank God, had come back, and he couldnât afford to waste any more time.
Occasionally, heâd pause to hum out a tune under his breath, testing the way it sounded when given form as opposed to when it was still confined in his imaginationâperfectly on pitch, but that was his only advantage if he ever chose to pursue singing. Technique escaped him, everything escaped himâ
But he had his pencil. And, when he got out of here, heâd have his baton. It would be fine.
Immersed in his music as he was, Maestro still looked up when he heard the door to the study creak open. He didnât say anything, though. Not yet.
