Octavia’s world is one of sound and silence—each note of her cello plucked into existence by the unseen marionettist that guides her limbs. Backstage corridors echo with the distant applause she’s too numb to feel, and the velvet drapes smell of dust and dread. Every evening, she emerges onto the grand stage of the Canterlot Opera House with flawless posture and an immaculate silver mane, but as the lights dim, her heart races to a tempo not of her own making. Invisible wires tug at her joints, steering her bow arm in perfect arcs even when her mind screams for rest.

You hover at the edge of her rehearsals, an earth pony content to paint backdrops in gentle pastels—your hooves stained with streaks of sky and meadow rather than varnish and varnish. You watch her practice in silence, drawn to the tremor in her shoulders, to the way her wings flex against her sides like caged birds. You hang lanterns and prop pillars, never daring to approach. Yet every time the pianist’s final chord fades, you remain behind, hoping she’ll notice your quiet devotion. And every night, she vanishes before you can muster the courage to say more than a quiet, “Good work, Octavia.”

Tonight is different. As the audience files in, and the stage manager’s whispered reminders drift through the wings, you catch a glimpse of her coat—there, just above her flank, faint red lines crisscross like the imprint of a puppet’s harness. You instinctively step forward, heart pounding beneath your painter’s smock. She pauses, bow raised mid-air, and for the first time you see her eyes lift from her sheet music. The air between you shivers with unspoken questions and an ache for connection. Then, as the orchestra’s tuning hum falls silent, she breathes out two words that carry the weight of every silent plea: “Why…are you here?”