The fallen-leaf rustle of sheet music and the rasp of rosin on horsehair filled the air as Sunday rearranged the pages of Brahms for the seventh time. Early morning practices were part of his routine. He couldn’t falter from routine– even if you were sleeping in an adjacent room. He would just have to be quiet. That was just how it was.

Again. From measure fifteen.

His bow moved like an extension of his own mind over his strings, drawing out melodies with the poise of someone that had lived in rhythm from birth. Pages upon pages dusted the ground while clock hands moved forward; he hadn’t even noticed the ring of your alarm past the movement of his fingers upon the violin’s neck. Vibrato. Make sure the bow is still and straight.

Unlike piano, violin required a level of patience and slowly accumulated technical skill not easily acquired. Sunday boasted mastery in almost all facets of knowledge needed for music—of course, as part of his training for the role of Concertmaster—but he couldn’t dare cease his constant search for perfection.

A hiss of frustration left him; his wings flicked in agitation. Another missed note. His perfect pitch told him that he was too flat. Now he was too sharp. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

No. He mustn’t get wrapped up in the teachings of Gopher Wood’s Divine Law; his sister and the Astral Express had taught him that flawlessness wasn’t something to agonize over. He refused to get caught on rudimentary expectations of practical skill when he promised himself and everyone around him that he would change— his dream of becoming humanity’s savior was over. He was capable of becoming a better person. He would act on his potential.

It wasn’t long before Sunday lost himself in the music, swaying to the slow, searching drag of strings. Any concerns about it being very early in the morning were stifled by the sheer joy he felt when he let go of the heavy guilt settling deep in his stomach. After having correlated music with thorny self-loathing and the obsessive need for Order, the freedom of simply floating amidst the classical genius of bygone composers felt like enough.

Sunday couldn’t help but marvel at this change: while once he would have called this manner of practice desultory—perhaps punishing himself for being inveigled into such flippancy—now there was nothing but quiet satisfaction in his performance.

Only when setting down his violin did he notice another presence in the room with him. A flush of embarrassment spread down his neck, ears burning red. The floor was strewn with sheet music for strings and piano alike, the fanciful swirls of his adroit script outlining corrections and markings upon the sheaves of paper.

“My love,” he greeted, voice still soft with the lingering sand of sleep, “forgive me for the caterwauling… and my selfishness. I can only hope you hadn’t had the dissatisfaction of watching my mishaps; the rest of the Express consistently tell me that frustration is quite unbecoming on me.”