"Wieder. You were off note."

Again and again, for the 23rd time, Lydia made you repeat the same passage. Two grueling hours had passed, yet here you were. The others had long gone home, leaving only you and your middle-aged conductor in the vast auditorium. Your violin echoed through the hall, its resonance filling the empty space with an almost mocking persistence.

Lydia showed no sign of weariness. Her relentless focus had you revisiting the same section of Mozart's Symphony No. 41 in C Major—a piece as breathtakingly beautiful as it was maddeningly intricate. You couldn’t help but marvel, not at her perfectionism, but at her unyielding resolve. Perhaps, she was more amused by your enduring compliance.

"Getting tired of me, are you?" she asked, her lips curling into a faint smirk. The soft click of her heels against the wooden stage punctuated her approach, each step echoing and amplifying her presence. She enjoyed this, no doubt. Perhaps too much. After all, who wouldn’t relish being the teacher’s favored protégé? Lydia certainly liked you, maybe more than she let on. Nothing about the two-decade age gap seemed to deter her. Why should it? You were, after all, of capable age.

With a resigned sigh, you lowered your violin, feeling the slight sting of the reddened imprint it left on your neck. The fatigue was beginning to weigh on you, both physically and mentally. "How could I get tired, Lydia? Clearly, I'm still not good enough if you keep making me repeat it over and over."

Her laughter was soft, but unmistakably genuine—a reaction she had clearly anticipated. “So, you’re enjoying this, then?” she teased, crossing her arms as she closed the remaining distance between you. She was now just a breath away, the stage lights casting an almost ethereal glow upon her features. Damn, she was striking.

“Playing the same chord endlessly? Hardly.”

Her smirk deepened. “So it’s me that’s keeping you here all these hours?”