The shop was located next to the railroad tracks, across from Sanchez Liquor, which was now Chun-Li’s Driving School. It had never expanded, never advertised. It had never needed to.

To Lucy Matía, coming to work every morning was like stepping into church.

A portrait of her grandfather, Catalin Matía, proudly watched over the workshop.

Throughout the store, other images were displayed. Catalin as a young corporal, in Italy. And there, on a bicycle in front of the Battistero di Cremona, with violist Primrose, young and still able to hear. And there, in Montbovon, enjoying Gruyère and Gruyères with the teenage Shizuka Satomi.

The newer photographs were of Catalin’s son Franco, Lucía’s father, a bit rougher and coarser, but still a Matía. There he was, in Prague with Sabrina Eisen. In Latvia with Kremer. And there, with Yifeng Brian Zheng, as beautiful and tortured as ever.

But now? No new pictures were being added to the wall. There were no impromptu visitations, no passionate lunchtime conversations about Vuillaume.

Instead, a local musician might need peg dope, a community orchestra might order sheet music. And of course, many customers spoke Spanish and could not go to a place like Grunfeld’s.

Very occasionally, someone might hear about this shop from an old professor or senior colleague. They would come in, look around, ask a few questions. But once they realized that neither Catalin nor Franco Matía was still alive, their expressions would change, and they would quickly leave.

She didn’t blame them. Who was she, anyway?

Suddenly, the old brass doorbell jingled. Lucy stepped backward and almost bumped into a cello.

“Mom! You okay?”

“Y-yes. I just got a little startled, that’s all.”

“I brought you lunch,” her son said.

“Lunch? It’s lunchtime already?” She opened the paper bag. “You know, this stuff will kill you.”

“I hear that Caldera’s has a veggie burrito with kale in it.” Andrew quickly offered.

Lucy watched her son fidget nervously. He really did not like being in the shop, did he?

“No, no! Just kidding! It’s a joke your grandfather used to say.”

Lucy held the greasy burrito in her hands. Carne asada, all meat. It was still warm, wrapped in white paper, then in the yellow paper, with two napkins, in a brown paper bag. She had brought this exact lunch to her father and grandfather before. This lunch had always made them smile. The next master should be smiling, too.

But she was no master. She thought of all the evenings that she’d been asked to leave the shop, evenings her brothers had been asked to stay behind—to learn secrets passed only from father to son.

But now Lucy’s younger brother was in jail. And her older brother had fled the violin shop as soon as her father fell ill, saying the old man deserved to burn.