There were no mementos from past vacations. No souvenirs. No dried flowers. No paramours or family photos. The walls were empty as well.

Miss Satomi sat on the bed, all alone but for what was she holding.

“I just retrieved this from Lucía Matía. Please, take a look.”

In Miss Satomi’s elegant hands, the bow seemed surprisingly plain. Although it had new silver fittings and was freshly polished, it still seemed thin. The wood smelled sickly.

No, not quite sickly. Hungry.

“Many years ago, this was given to me by Tremon Philippe. At the time, I was a violinist like you—only a lot better.”

Miss Satomi held the bow like a most lovely and terrible addiction.

“As a child, when I played, the world seemed bright and happy. My parents stopped yelling. My mother would talk about her childhood, we’d watch the rain and sing, ‘teru teru bohzu, teru boh-zu.’ Sometimes my father would even pull out an old harmonica.

“As long as I played, everything was all right. After my first competition, my violin teacher cried. He said when I played, he saw his father in uniform, and his mother, her hair still soft and brown. They were all going shopping, and there were cakes with the aroma of cinnamon and clove…”

Miss Satomi shrugged.

“But then, competitions became larger and shinier. And at some point, people stopped listening.

“Oh, they still acted as if they did. They would say how beautiful I was. They would call me brilliantly exotic, a China doll. They gave me awards. They praised me. Yet, little by little, what they wanted eclipsed what I was, until they even forgot that I was from Monterey Park. And my music?

“Well, for a while, I thought if I won enough trophies, enough certificates, people would listen again. But no, there were just bigger performances, bigger cities, and bigger spotlights. A conductor would give me his hotel key; a sponsor would brush her hand where she shouldn’t. I tried to play louder to make them listen. I tried to play harder so they would understand. I tried to play and play and play, because as long as I played, everything would be okay.

“But then my hand started to hurt. And then the pain got worse. Much worse—to the point where I would touch the violin and my entire arm felt like it was on fire.”

She held up her hand, the same one Katrina had thought perfect and beautiful.

“It was not the best of times. I went from expert to expert. Some doctors said nerve damage. Others said soft tissue, or bone. A few even insisted the pain was in my mind.

“By then, I could no longer play. I thought my parents would be heartbroken for me … but instead they were furious. Soon, they divorced. Two years later, my father disappeared. My mother blamed me until the day she died.