“I told her that my other students gave up their souls,” Miss Satomi said simply. “But that hers would remain her own.”

“But what about you? You need to find another student, right away—y-you need—”

“Astrid. No. There’s no need.”

“But Miss Satomi!”

“Astrid. Please.”

Shizuka put the bow down, then spoke with a voice that Astrid had never heard before.

“No matter what, I can say it has been quite the adventure.”

Shizuka looked out past her fishpond, past her yard. Next door, the family was fast asleep. The chickens were asleep. A small animal, probably an opossum, was sifting through the garbage.

“I admit it. I set out to be great. I set out to be right, to be beautiful. When I was younger, I even thought my music might change the world.”

“It did!” Astrid said.

“Did it, though? Yes, it won me awards. And admirers. But did it really change anything?

“Before I injured my hand, I wanted not just to play this music, but to share it. To get people to listen to this music—not just coming from me, but from everywhere.

“And after, for nearly fifty years, I have lain awake each night wondering how I’d escape damnation—not from Hell, but from the fear that my music—my truest, genuine music—was just a lonely, pathetic dream.”

“But then, I found that girl—playing that music. And then I knew. There could be no doubt that the music I was playing was real. For here, finally, was a music with the same magic as my own.”

“But, Miss Satomi! No one has ever matched you.”

“No, they haven’t.” Shizuka let herself smile. “But Katrina will find her own way. In fact, you may find, in time, that you may grow as fond of her music as you are of mine.”

“No—I mean, yes, Miss Satomi.”

“Or maybe not. It might be nice for you to remember how wonderful I was.” Shizuka chuckled. “But when I listen to Katrina, I realize she will take this music to places I would never dream. I think that’s enough for any teacher—to know that her music will continue long after she is gone.”

After she is gone? What was she saying? Astrid wanted to scream. Hadn’t Miss Satomi noticed? The laughter, the life, the fire—all of that was back in her music.

Hadn’t Miss Satomi noticed that her own music had so much more yet to say?

There had to be a way. Somewhere, they could find a soul—there had to be one. They had time. Surely—

“Astrid?”

“Yes, Miss Satomi?”

“Will you please take care of Katrina Nguyen when I’m gone?”

“Y-yes, Miss Satomi.”