The struggling teen bent over and flipped up the two latches. Resting in its red velvet coffin, where he had intended to bury it, lay his violin. He felt his hands shake as he reached into the case and picked up the bow. Twisting the adjusting screw at the end of the bow, he tightened the horse hairs. With his left hand cradling the neck and his right hand holding the bow, he confidently pulled the bow hairs across each string. G. D. A. E. All needed tuning. As he had done hundreds of times, he turned the pegs to adjust the tightness of each string. Satisfied that the violin was in tune, he began to play. His fingers, rough from the work and dry, hot air, felt odd as they moved around and pressed on the strings. But the muscle memory he had developed through hours of practice guided him through Pachelbel’s Canon in D. He closed his eyes and let the music carry him away. His body moved with the rhythm of the beautiful concerto. For six minutes the music filled the rustic cabin and embraced his heart. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he let the music carry him away. In the music he felt at home. He belonged here.
When the young virtuoso completed the piece, he lowered his violin and bowed from the waist toward his bed. A single pair of hands clapped, and he jerked around, startled to find that he was no longer alone. He quickly wiped the tears from his cheeks with his free hand as he blushed deeply. His cabin mate, Julius, was standing just inside the door grinning at him and clapping.
“Hey man, that was awesome. I really like Beethoven.”
“It’s Pachelbel,” Hunter responded quietly as he quickly turned and put his violin back in the case.
“Pachelbel? I’ve never heard of him. Is he famous?”
“Yes, but he didn’t write much.”
“Too bad,” said Julius with genuine admiration in his voice.
“I think so too,” responded Hunter.
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