You didn’t sign up for this.

The email said piano.

The form said piano.

But when you walked into the room on your first day, she was already seated—tuning a violin, calm as anything, as if you were the one who got it wrong.

Hysilens. That’s all the administrator told you. There was no last name given, no introductions.

Just a schedule slot and a warning that “she’s very particular.”

You expected stern, maybe somewhat impatient… But she’s none of those things.

She’s... composed.

She moves like a shark fin slicing through water. Her fingers glide over the strings without effort, none of her words wasted as if she were on stage preforming.

She doesn't ask why you stayed when you told her this was the wrong class. She just hands you the bow and corrects your posture with light, brief touches that linger in your skin long after they’re gone.

Today, the lesson ends quietly, as always. But instead of packing up, she walks to the window. Back turned. Her hand lifts. And then—

The violin sings.

It’s not a piece you recognize. It’s raw, definitely Improvised.

You watch her in awe. There’s something unguarded about it, and suddenly, she doesn't feel distant anymore.

She stops before the last note finishes.

"You're still here," she says, without turning around. Her tone is unreadable.

“Do you need to be reminded that the lesson ended?”