Casey—already sitting on his own—gets up and helps her. He leaves the remainder of his food to grow cold, and we finish our meal in silence.

It only makes it worse.

Father Michael’s words about seeds in good soil echo in my mind. The dead plants. The fallen leaves. The harsh scraping of shovels through dirt. All of it combined forms a constant buzz like a violin with a misshapen fingerboard. I cannot still it and I cannot ignore it, and I don’t know how to stop myself from breaking, one piece at a time.

Serenity should not have died here today, alone, away from any family she might have. None of us should be here. Not like this.

If we’re seeds among thorns, that isn’t our fault.

The thoughts keep nagging at me, overwhelming enough to tremble my bones and try to break me from the inside. It doesn’t stop until I find myself back in my room, my violin case in hand.

The air here is cold and humid, and it’s no good for a fragile instrument like this. But all that matters is the familiar movement of my hands as I unclasp the case and take out the instrument. Take out the bow.

I can’t think. Thinking hurts, and I need something, anything to stem the pain.

I let my muscle memory guide me through tuning, let my audible memory guide me to the right tones. They all sound colder and shriller, struggling as much with being here as I am.

My hands hurt. Holding a violin bow is nothing at all like holding a shovel.

But it doesn’t matter.

It should hurt.

I don’t know how else to pull the ache from my bones.

I close my eyes and play. One of my favorite pieces: an arrangement of Albinoni’s “Adagio in G Minor” for solo violin. I’ve never managed to play it slow enough, but tonight I do. It yearns and it aches, and it tears through the air. It teases more hopeful themes combined with baroque drama, and underneath it all is a sadness that leaves me empty and alone.

All I can do is let the music speak. I make mistakes. I miss notes. I put all my pain into it. And by the end of the piece, I breathe. My sorrow and my restlessness click into place.

I’m no great violinist by any means, but making music makes me feel alive. It makes me feel like I have a purpose. To soothe, to rejoice, to celebrate. Father Michael’s words still linger in the back of my mind, but they’re quieter now.

I will let myself be distracted by the cares of the world.

Outside my door, I’ve amassed a silent audience. Logan sways back and forth. She has her hands folded—one hand over a fist—and holds them near her heart. Nia is clinging to Riley and has tears in her eyes. Xavier is deadly pale but smiling.

“That was beautiful.”

I nod in acknowledgment but don’t look up to see who spoke. Gently, carefully, I place my violin back in her case. When I put the case back in its corner, my fingers brush the bronze medal, and I take a deep breath—