The mist that had shrouded the piazzas earlier now seemed to swirl around Nico Paolo's heart as he took the now sunset stage of the open theater (another masterpiece designed by his father).
Within moments, the petite boy's voice soared, a haunting melody entrancing the crowd. Meanwhile, his mind meandered millions of kilometers away as the music strummed so many heartstrings; however, his own heart remained untouched even by his falsetto honed for his now demented father.
Nico's voice poured out like a slow, dark river, his tone haunting and mesmerizing. Yet his body remained still, a stark contrast to the emotional depth of his singing. His hands hung limp at his sides, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the crowd. Seeming to come from a place beyond his physical form, only his voice hinted at passion.
Most audience members were transfixed, and many were at least slightly unnerved by the disconnect between Nico's emotive singing and static presence. Some had expected a performer who would dance, gesture, and weave a spell with movement; true fans knew what they'd witness.
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Critics and fans alike called Nico "il Cantante di Legno" because, despite his voice's soaring like a bird set free, his body remained stiff, stilted, and lifeless like a puppet carved from lumber. His face was a mask of tranquility, his eyes were frozen in a distant gaze, and his movements were eerily slight. The moniker stuck, a constant reminder of the disconnect between his passion and his performance.
A thunderous ovation erupted as the final notes faded! The crowd rose to their feet, some faces etched with awe, some with admiration, and even some with confusion–but all steeped in amusement! Some cried while others beamed with smiles. The air was alive with the aroma of appreciation and the stench of judgment, but Nico's heart remained unmoved, still shrouded in the scentless mist.
As he bowed, his face a mask of polite gratitude, eyes empty, and heart still detached, he couldn't shake the feeling of disconnection. The admiration, the applause, and the accolades all felt hollow, a reminder that he was living a legacy's life.
“All of this from them but still nothing from Mamma.”
Like most paid performances, he'd sung with precision, but it felt like plagiarism: a theft of his own emotions, a mimicry of his mother's legacy. The weight of expectation, the pressure to excel, and the suffocating grip of his own self-doubt reduced his music to a mere imitation of life. He again wondered if he'd develop his own stage voice or if he'd stay trapped under the yoke of perfectionism.