Francis parts from a nurturing dream with a sigh. The sunlight is wrapped in thick, gray clouds, and the light’s absence makes his room feel heavy. Francis rubs his eyes and fetches his glasses from the table beside his bed. The hanging calendar doesn’t need to show anything but a circled date for a wave of purpose to fill his petite body with energy. Today is the day for which he’s been preparing for three years: the entrance exams to Imaginationville’s prestigious Orchestra School. With thin ebony hair cradling his ivory face and crystalline blue eyes refracting the feelings around him, dear Francis summons his confidence and prepares for the big day ahead of him. He retrieves a tuxedo from his closet and wraps a keyboard-printed tie around his neck. With contemplation, he caresses the gifted tie, a melancholy weighing down his heart, forcing it to strengthen its beating. Francis sighs away the weight from his chest, requesting it, It’s all right. You can rest now. That is why he’s striving to attend the school, after all: So her wish won’t go in vain.
Francis skips down the stairs of the compact house, immediately arriving in the kitchen/dining room adjacent to the front door. Although the home is cloaked in the solemn gray from outside, the fluorescent lights do well to brighten the space. Freshly-spread raspberry jam sweetens the air, and the caramelized perfume of French toast embraces it. Francis slides into a seat at the kitchen table, and Nick turns from the stove in the kitchenette to greet him.
“Hey, today’s the big day, isn’t it?”
“It is!” Francis returns enthusiastically, his face glowing like the full moon.
Nick sighs, reflecting on the passing of time. “It’s hard to believe it’s been three years already. So much has changed. But I’m glad you found something you really love to do.”
Francis meditates, as well, cupping his hands over the bittersweet energy coalescing in his heart. Music, to him, has become a precious companion that shares his joys and helps carry his burdens. Although he’s only been playing piano for three years now, he realizes he has no idea what he would ever do without it, like having to give up a vital organ.
“So am I…” he voices softly.
Breakfast passes by slowly in quiet, and Francis uses this time to calm his nerves and to rehearse the songs in his head, noting all of Claire’s mood suggestions and reinforcing which choices he’ll make for each song’s narrative. Nicholas has to snap him out of his ruminating so he doesn’t leave late. Francis jumps from the table and double-checks that he doesn’t need to bring anything before cleaning his glasses and heading to the front door.
Nick looks over his grown foster son and sighs with pride. “Well, good luck today. I’ll be here waiting for the good news!”
“I promise I’ll do it!” Francis declares, waving as he leaves to the prairie outside.
*~*
The selective college is located in the middle of a peaceful field; its mahogany façade towers over the plains like a modern cathedral. The walls hold the melodies and ambitions of every past and existing student, supporting the structure alongside the beams hiding under the papered walls. Francis sighs in relief, knowing he’s not alone, and enters through the giant cherry wood double doors carved with harps and ivy.
The interior opens up to a rounded ceiling suspended far into the sky and an open hallway stretching out in hardwood cradled with cream-colored walls. Immediately, an orchestra room waits on the left side, although it’s empty now without any instruments. On the right side are the Dean’s office and administration offices. Distant echoes float along the ceiling, and this vague reminder sets Francis’ nerves flaring again.
Maroon benches sit in intervals along the hall, and at one of them sits both Calla and Marie, two of Claire’s dear friends. Calla looks proper as usual in her long purple dress the same color as her long purple hair. Sky blue eyes peek from her pale face white as clouds. Mature and poised, she greets Francis with a dulcet voice.
“Hello, Master Calla!” Francis enthusiastically greets his piano tutor.
Marie waves and gets up, straightening her expensive on-trend clothes over her sun-tanned skin. With a flip of her short-cut navy hair, she locks eyes with her best friend’s beloved.
“Today’s the big day,” Marie states with a hint of playfulness.
“I’m nervous, though… I hope I do well…”
“Like you have anything to worry about!” Marie admonishes.
“Do not worry, my dear Francis. You have been practicing, yes?” Calla adds.
“Master Dominant and I have been working on the songs daily!” Francis declares, showing confident fists.
“See? What did I tell you. He and Sands have been obsessing over this.” Marie declares with a nudge. “You’re going to be fine.”
“I know. But I still feel nervous… in this new situation,” Francis mutters, twirling his fingers nervously.
Marie shakes her head and smacks a hand to the boy’s shoulder. Calla smiles nervously and tells Francis to leave and get in line for the auditions. As he wanders the halls, the reverberating mutters get louder and louder until a sizeable line of students becomes visible around a corner. Some are waiting in line patiently while others are grouped in threes or fours and chatting away under their breaths. Some students are pouring over books or packets of sheet music to absorb the information in the last seconds. A couple students at the front of the line separate into different rooms further ahead, while others exit the intimidating wooden doors with sullen or exuberant faces.
Francis continues to examine the scene curiously, focusing on different potential students and imagining their life stories for a moment, more swept up in the moment than confident in what he should do next. Luckily for him and other lost people, a staff member wearing a name tag comes by to direct the movement of incoming traffic.
“Here for the audition?” The lady doesn’t wait for an answer and continues. “Check in here at this desk and take a name tag. Then follow where you’re told to go.”
Francis’ eyes wander hesitantly to the table shoved against the left wall. “All right,” he mumbles before changing direction. Two more volunteers are shoved against the wall behind the white table lined with printed name tags and a guest book. The book just asks for name and time and date, though it takes Francis a few seconds to process the answers for the blanks. For a moment, he’s confused why more crucial information isn’t asked of him, but it’s because all necessarily paperwork was already gathered during the selection phase. Though the audition is what truly determines who gets a slot, no further information is required of anyone who comes in. The person sitting on the right asks for first and last name and sifts through a pile for a name tag after Francis has to spell his last names. The person then points further down the hall where Francis came from, saying he needs to find a seat in one of the chairs lined up by a room down there. He nods and makes way back toward the entrance a little bit. When he arrives, there are a couple people already sitting, and Francis looks to them nervously for a second before allowing himself to sit at the end. Away from everyone else, he takes a few deep breaths to relax. After a while, the first person enters the room, then a half-hour later, the second one exchanges with the first. Francis is the only one left, though he hasn’t moved up to the first seat.
After twenty minutes or so, the previous person exits the room looking mildly disappointed, and Francis follows them with his eyes as they walk down the hall to the exit. The hall has become significantly quieter during this significant passage of time, and Francis can barely hear the mutters from around the corner. He waits, his thoughts invaded by anxious voices, and his folded hands start to shake.
“Next?” A man calls from the door.
Francis lifts his head. “Oh. Is it me?”
“Come in.”
Before he knows it, Francis is embraced by the gorgeous room. Red velvet carpet hums in the background, and thick walls decorated with paneled wood contain every thought. A small podium waits in the far end of the palatial room, and a mahogany grand piano sits askew in the middle of the flat carpet. Immediately, Francis feels relief and is pulled like a magnet to the instrument, greeting it with a press of a key, the same one every time he meets a new friend. The sound rings out gently, producing a clearer and more reserved sound than his from home. This piano has a gentle temperament but still boasts an underlying confidence. Francis smiles, already feeling a kindred connection to the instrument.
“We’d like you to answer some questions first,” another man calls out.
Francis turns around. Two older men are staring directly at him. The anxiety rises like boiling water again.
“Um, all right…” Francis mutters. Closing his eyes, he pulls a memory of Claire to his side. Her presence, like the feeling of finding something lost… Then he remembers with a start. “Oh, do you need this CD?”
“What CD?”
“For the orchestra accompaniment…”
“No, you can play it without that.”
Francis lowers his head sadly. He was hoping he could use this disc Claire made specially for this moment.
“Are you ready to answer some questions?”
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry.”
The man looks over some papers, which Francis assumes are the documents he submitted as part of the entrance requirement for the school. While his resume and assessment were not especially notable, the discrepancy from the years of study to the list of repertoire piqued the interest of the recruits.
“Do you have any formal training?”
Francis hesitates to answer, thinking back to his moments with Calla and Claire and their guidance through his musical journey. “I had a tutor who taught me these songs.”
“But did you have any schooling? And how long was the tutoring?”
“School? No. My tutor taught me the past three years or so.”
“But just the songs?”
“Yes.”
“So, you’ve had no formal training, then.”
“I suppose so. I’m sorry.”
“And you said you’ve seen this tutor for only three years?” The judge answers incredulously.
“Yes.”
“Then how is it that you can play at this level without any formal training?”
Francis answers honestly, using a term Claire taught him. “I’m told I’m a prodigious savant.”
*~*
The first song Francis chose to play, although not especially an impressive song, was “Clair de Lune,” his favorite song. He turns and faces the piano, surrendering himself to its influence like a medium to a spirit. Removing his glasses and closing his eyes, he concentrates on the gentle feeling of being bathed in moonlight. The song comes to him, like a flashback, and his fingers follow its will. The gentleness of the mahogany piano’s voice, like footsteps in the snow, fills him with a melancholic but loving feeling, like cherishing a childhood memory that can no longer be embraced. Every time he plays this song, he infuses it with different feelings, changing the structure and speed slightly in reflection, and this time, his thoughts wander to the moment he first offered himself to song.
“Nicholas, where are you sending me?” Francis asked nervously, his body quivering like a rabbit accepting the jaws of a wolf.
“I’m sending you to stay with someone I can trust. You’ll be hiding in Realworldlia until we finish things at Detector Co.”
“Realworldlia?”
“I promise you’ll be safe,” Nick quelled the doubt in his child’s voice and petted his head.
In a flash of orange vapors, Francis materialized before a simplistic home sequestered by trees. Far removed from the world, the rustling leaves and singing birds cloaked the area in a forcefield of peace. A white door, with cracks exposing its original wood bruised by time, stood before Francis soundlessly. He sighed, knowing he had no choice but to accept the situation he was in now. He knocked on the door cautiously, afraid of what it might conceal, and a few seconds of silence passed. A squirrel darted up to Francis’ feet—then retreated once it locked eyes with him.
The golden doorknob rattled, looking like it would break loose. The door opened. Francis couldn’t hold back a flinch and shut his eyes tight.
“Hello?”
The gentleness of the stranger’s voice comforted Francis, and he sighed, allowing his eyes to open slowly.
Golden brown hair was the first thing to catch his eyes, and Francis traced the curls that reached almost to the person’s legs. Although the hair wasn’t well-kept, there was a beauty to its untamed wildness, like an overgrown prairie bursting with thin grasses and wildflowers all trying to compete to reach the sun. A bit shorter than he was, the pale person idly waited in the doorway, looking over Francis curiously with chestnut eyes hiding behind thick, blue glasses.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Oh, are you the one Nick told me about?”
Francis shuffled his feet nervously. “Um… Yes. my name is Francis J…”
“I thought you’d come by soon.”
The individual didn’t state their name, but we’ll say it’s Claire for now and that she goes by “she.” She stepped from the door and allowed passage for the new guest. The interior of the home was decorated with antiques: maroon couches and mahogany furniture paired with floral carpeting and hardwood flooring. The sunlight from outside rained down on the living room from high-up windows, making it seem like they were not even indoors.
Claire had known Nick for a while and had helped him deal with the Detectors, so he trusted her and came to her one day with this proposal. She had recently become very lonely after breaking up with her boyfriend, so she decided to agree to help to try to alleviate the emptiness in her heart. At the same time, Nick warned her that Francis might be overly shy and scared at first and explained that he was very sheltered and deserves more experiences. Claire understood immediately and already felt a sense of kinship despite not having met Francis yet. Although introverted herself, Claire took up writing to try to relate to other people and also to help others not to feel as alone as she. Now that he’s in the room, Claire can see a bit of what Nick was saying, but she hopes things will work out well. Plus, she’ll be able to protect him if any Detectors come knocking.
“Make yourself at home. There’s not much special, but it’s a quiet home, at least…” Claire’s words cut themselves from existence, as though in punishment for sequestering a cold truth.
“Um…”
“Do you need to unpack? There’s a spare room upstairs. Although, it doesn’t look like you brought much with you. Do you need to get some clothes or anything?” Claire tinged the questions with worry.
“Um… There is one more thing I want to bring with me… But it’s rather large,” Francis sheepishly stated, twirling his index fingers about each other.
“That’s fine. There’s room upstairs or down here in the living room,” Claire said, creating space with her arms. “How big are we talking?”
Francis went to work scouting the area in the living room, surveying the distance with his eyes. He tucked his thin body into the corner formed by the married walls and created a space with outstretched arms horizontally and vertically. Claire enjoyed watching him and forgot that the compact space would need to be arranged first to accept anything else.
“I can move stuff around. Are you transporting it here?”
“Yes, if that’s all right…”
“It’s not a problem,” Claire said while pulling away the antique settee and laboring over the stuck wheels of the Victrola, adding, “I hope I don’t scratch the floors. Oh, well.”
Francis closed his eyes in concentration, and a mysterious, visceral light began to swirl about his feet, slowly consuming his whole body until he was trapped in a vortex of whipping light. Suddenly, a flash burst from the stored energy, transforming it to intangible brightness, and a full-size grand piano materialized from the dissipating mist.
Claire screamed in surprise. “You brought a full-sized grand into my house?!”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m just surprised. You like to play it, then?” Claire’s serious aura dissolved slightly.
“Well… I’ve just received it, and I didn’t want it to be lonely at home. I don’t know any songs yet… but I love how it sounds…” Francis muttered, sitting beside his new friend and touching the keys so softly that they didn’t even fall.
“That’s OK. I know someone who can teach you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, she wants to be a private tutor someday. But she’s also a bit busy with work, so…” Claire reminded herself not to force tasks on others so suddenly like they don’t have individual lives. “But I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
“I would love to learn to play something!” Francis jumped from the piano bench.
And so, Claire introduced her new friend to Calla, a lifelong friend and lover of music. She was happy to have such an enthusiastic student on her hands, and she promised Claire that he would return home with something to play next time.
Claire stumbled downstairs to see Francis fluttering through “Clair de Lune” as though he’d cherished this melody his whole life. There was a genuine tranquility to his pallid face as he played with his eyes closed, as though offering himself as a medium to the music.
“Child, I thought you didn’t know that song. Did Call teach you already?”
He retracted his hands shyly, using them to wring his sky blue tie instead. “Well, I copied her movements as she played, so she taught me to play the song, and I just memorized it.”
“Just from playing it once? You have a good memory.”
“I’m not sure how I did it, either…” Francis reflected with a slight pout.
“That’s pretty neat, though. It means you can learn more songs. I’ll find some more for you that you might like.”
“Really?!”
“Yeah. I’ve been into Classical lately, but I just started collecting songs, so there aren’t many. But I can look up more. Since you love the moon, we could do ‘Moonlight Sonata.’ It’s a lot easier…”
“I would love to learn more songs!” Francis exclaimed, jumping from the piano bench.
Over time, Claire sifted through Rtunes and amassed a catalogue of melodies. With each new song she discovered, Francis absorbed the melody into his body and set it flying free around the house. Claire began to get used to the home’s natural soundtrack as she tried out new cookie recipes or labored over more book chapters or tried to fall asleep at night amid restless thoughts. Francis and his music became a constant companion, and one she hoped would never leave her.
*~*
The next song they both chose was “The Swan” from Carnival of the Animals. He needed to pick a duet song or some kind of sonata, so the judges allowed this one to pass.
The man standing guard at the door calls for someone down the hallway and opens the door for a boy carrying a cello.
“This counts for his screening, too,” the judge informs.
The tall boy has dark hair tinted with magenta and wide, curious eyes. His dark skin matches with the espresso wood of the cello, making them both look like twins. With a gentle smile, he nods to Francis.
“Hi, I’m Devon.”
“Hello.” Francis nods back.
Devon sets up alongside the piano, double-checking that the cello is perfectly tuned.
As Francis stands around, the judge comes to him curiously. “Do you need accompaniment?”
“I know there’s a cello for this song…”
“I mean for the piano.”
“No, I can play it on my own.”
The man doesn’t question this, remembering a note from Francis’ application. Out of curiosity, he just lets it happen. Devon calls out that he’s tuned and ready, and Francis readies himself again alongside his new piano friend. He’s hardly played with anyone else, so his hands freeze in place above the keys. As much as his fingers twitch from nervousness, Francis can’t get them to do anything else but quiver in anxious paralysis.
“You can start anytime.”
Francis sighs to himself, trying his best to banish the nervousness. Once again, he summons a vision of Claire to his side. A gentle warmth spreads from his chest, like the sensation of hugging a warm blanket from the dryer. “The Swan” was a song special to her, for she loved string instruments. This is for you, he wants to say, but he knows this whisper will be trapped by the sound-proofed room and will never reach the sky. It’s a melancholic song, made dazed by the pedals, evoking the feeling of a swan watching its reflection in the lake, pining for its oily, unstable companion. The cello’s clear voice rings out in mourning, crying out over the splashes of the piano’s dreamy song. Once again, Francis delves into the song, the world around him fading away and the past replacing it seamlessly.
Their eyes rarely touched, but Claire loved to follow his gaze. Whatever his eyes set to rest upon, like an angel’s feather, was far more interesting than anything she could be (or so she thought). Claire would take him on country drives, as it was a ritual she’d inherited from her grandmother. Francis would always sit in the back seat directly behind her and would blankly stare out the window as they both sped through the back roads. Claire would always wonder what was going on in his mind, and a sliver of these musings were granted to her one day when they were both passengers.
“What’s wrong?”
Francis let out a soft “Huh?” And turned his wide, crystalline eyes toward her.
“You always look sad whenever we pass cemeteries. I mean, it makes sense, but…”
His usually gentle face became very bittersweet, and the color dulled in his bright eyes. “Well, whenever we pass by certain places, I’m filled with the emotions of those places. And because cemeteries have experienced a lot of sadness, grief, and regret, the sensation is very strong.”
“So, you’re an empath?”
“Hm?”
“You can sense the residual feelings of places. Can… can you sense the feelings of living people, too?”
“Yes. It’s something I’ve always felt, so I haven’t questioned it much.”
“It’s just like those kids on Psychic Kids. I’ll show you sometime. You can learn more about who you are.”
As soon as they returned home, Claire ran to the television hiding in a cabinet in the living room. Pressing the DVD player, she dropped a CD into the receiver and set it playing. Flopping on the couch, she invited Francis to sit beside her and glued her eyes to the TV screen. The program interviewed kids across the country who struggled with their strange abilities and their encounters with spirits. With help of a veteran psychic, the kids would learn coping mechanisms and ways to hone their abilities to help others.
“I didn’t know that others had similar abilities…” Francis whispered, astonished.
“I told you!” Claire shouted, her eyes scintillating like stars.
With a wide smile, Francis enclosed Claire in a sudden hug, startling her.
“Well, I’m glad you feel better, Child,” she returned sheepishly, fidgeting a bit from his warm touch.
With newfound inspiration, he worked hard to follow the advice from the counselor on TV and to learn to control his emotions and energy. Claire and he both worked on the techniques of separating feelings and learning to identify them, mostly with his using her as a test subject. Francis felt internally renewed when he found that his energy wasn’t fading as quickly as it used to and when his heart wasn’t as confused by foreign emotions.
In time, he began to rely more on his empathy, using it to exchange information silently between himself and his dearest friend.
“How are you today, Child?”
“I am doing well, Master Dominant!” he declared, his face glowing with excitement.
“I think it’s funny you like to call me that. That’s what 12.12 calls me,” Claire stated, referring to one of her alter-egos.
“Master 12.12 is very wise…”
“I’m glad you like her, too.”
Claire spent most of her time holed upstairs in front of the computer. While Francis would usually provide her soundtrack, sometimes he would wander upstairs to observe her hard at work, curious about the process of writing. The first time, he was surprised at what he saw. She was an entirely different person then, her eyes glazed over with focus, and her thoughts hovering somewhere far away. Her body was there, but nothing else was. He thought this a bit strange but also captivating. In a way, she was no different than he was, giving up herself to any metaphorical spirit who would share its story with her. After a while, she returned—with a heavy sigh and heavy rubbing of her forehead to cure a throbbing headache. He could tell she was back because her energy felt different, more palpable. Even though she turned into raw emotion while she was writing, the living person had a careful grasp of feelings, like a churning sea immortalized in a painting. Turning, Claire saw Francis’ cute face, his winter eyes tinted with mild concern.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she stated groggily. “But I always forget I need to eat and stuff. I can’t just do this all day.” She admitted this with a bit of remorse toward its reality.
Francis smiled. “Would you like me to make you a sandwich?”
“Yeah, I think I need it…”
They both walked hand-in-hand, uniting themselves with each other. The shared but different passions and ways they mirrored each other were evident but enigmatic. But no matter how similar they might have been, Claire looked up at her dear kindred with envy, seeing him as an improved form of herself.
*~*
The third song he had to choose for the audition was a concerto. And it was immediately obvious to both him and Claire which one he should choose. The first one he’d ever learned: Rachmaninoff’s Second.
Now alone in the room, Francis feels more comfortable with only one song left. After all, the concerto piece is the reason why he’s here: in hopes he’ll someday join an orchestra. “Do I have to play the entire song?”
“No, just do the first movement.”
“All right…” Francis answers, mildly disappointed.
Closing his eyes, he beckons the song from the quiet. Each chord announces itself progressively louder until, finally, the song bursts into agonizing life, pacing along the keys like aggressively ruminating thoughts. Claire always told him this song was about depression. Agonizing, like falling into a chasm. But then it crawls from the pit, staring at the sunrise, clinging to the hope for strength. Tears dot Francis’ eyes, the deeply lethargic sensation returning to him. One they both knew too well.
After about a year, Francis grew comfortable staying at Claire’s house. He’d become accustomed to the daily routines of feeding the forest animals, riding to school, and placating any of his dear friend’s agonies. Although he wasn’t present at the house all the time, he cherished the moments he was there with his friend and also the freedom to explore new areas of Realworldlia and to find new pianos. One day, he was resting on the couch and waiting for his dear friend while reminiscing about their excursion downtown the previous day. He could still smell the French bread fresh from the oven and taste the rich raspberry ganache. And feel the gentleness of her hand holding his…
Suddenly, Claire plopped onto the couch next to him, whipping out headphones and an mp3 player.
“I found a song I think you’ll really like. You let me know what you think.” Handing him the headphones, Claire also shared a piece of herself.
Francis accepted the earpieces and closed his eyes, focusing intently on the chords, which increased in intensity gradually and gradually… until… The string instruments kicked in, and Francis opened his eyes, a bit confused but also intrigued. “What is this?”
“Oh, it’s a concerto, so it’s with the orchestra instruments. It’s really neat, isn’t it? I love string instruments, so… I thought it was neat it can be you and also an orchestra.”
The instruments absorbed him into their union, a shared experience of life’s many joys and struggles. Although there were many players, they were all in emotional harmony with each other. A couple tears formed in his eyes, and Francis jumped excitedly from the couch.
“I want to learn this song!”
Although it was a bit of a challenge for Calla to teach her budding student entire concertos, the process proved fruitful, as he thoroughly enjoyed playing through them, and he showed a quick knack for mimicking all the advanced techniques. At the same time, Claire labored over the movements, meticulously identifying every mood change and new melodic theme so Francis could follow them. Concertos were like a story to her, and she worked hard to identify each hidden story for her “main character” to follow.
“Here, I’ve been writing up ways you can play through the song.”
“Different ways?”
“Well, you like to incorporate your empathy into it, right? So, I kept that in mind while listening to the song, and I made some ‘mood charts’ for you to follow…”
Claire spread out some folded pieces of printer paper, each one inked with columns of time marks, notes, and emotional indications. Some of the time marks overlapped, and others had multiple suggestions for different moods for variations.
“You’re very smart, Master Dominant.”
“I dunno. I just did whatever came to mind. It’s the same as when I work on my books: things just come to me. I think you’d be better at this than I am, in all honesty.”
“But perhaps you, too, can hear the music speaking to you through feelings!”
“Who knows?”
Francis immediately leapt to the piano, and the two of them worked through the songs meticulously, finding new and exciting ways to incorporate his empathy and Claire’s penchant for storytelling into the concertos.
One day, Claire laid down on the couch and flipped through some articles online while Francis labored over his next song.
“Did you know? I*V has a famous music school. They also specialize in orchestra studies, so it’d be perfect for you.”
“Really?!”
Francis jumped up from the piano bench, settling close beside Claire on the adjacent couch. Alighting his head on her shoulder, he read the information printed on the phone.
“Oh, it says I would have to audition, though… and pass a preliminary exam,” his voice softened with worry.
“Yeah, they’re strict about who can study there, but that won’t be a problem for you, Child.”
“Do you think so?” he blushed.
“Of course I think so.” Claire petted his head, and he breathed a giggle in response. Claire sighed heavily, flattening into the wooden back of the couch. “I want you to go far. Grasp your dreams in my stead.”
Settling into bed, the two of them folded into each other like two halves of a circle, and they both pointed out songs from Claire’s extensive list to keep in mind for the audition. The catalog had grown so extensive that it had become hard to choose the perfect ones, since quite a few had absorbed so much sentimentality. They both made lists well into the evening and got too tired to move from the bed. Their glasses stacked on top of each other, the two decided it was time to rest. Francis smiled softly as Claire descended into sleep, and he took her hand once again, holding onto her presence as her vibrant aura drifted away like the sun sinking into the horizon. Folding over her like a blanket, he held her close and wished every day could be like this.
*~*
It was over. In fact, Francis could hardly believe he made it all the way to the end of the audition, though he knew the music would help carry him along if he got nervous. There’s quiet as the man scribbles some extra notes on the evaluation paper and passes it to the woman beside him, who also writes some notes. She hands it to Francis, who looks it over with curiosity.
“You’re the first one so far to get perfect marks,” the woman states with a smile.
Tears come to his eyes as the paper dematerializes to a feeling. He doesn’t even need to hear any more. The paper crumples in his hands, and he pulls it close to himself in a hug. “I did it, Master Dominant. I fulfilled your wish.”
For a moment, he just stands glued to the floor and fastened to the assessment, yielding to the river of tears finally released from him.
“I just wish… you were here to enjoy it with me.”