Brighter than Any Star

Isla didn't want to go to an orchestra concert. Practically nobody her age did, she had argued to her father earlier. Her little legs kicked the whole drive to the auditorium, and her squeaky voice complained every step of the way toward the grand doors. 

It would be an exciting experience, her father had said.

Falling asleep to music I don't even know isn't exciting, she replied.

You may learn something new, he said again.

What is there to learn from hearing sounds coming from a cello, she replied.

And although the little girl had to admit the theater was gorgeous, Isla still gave one last kick in protest as they sat in their seats. 

She had every intention of hating the entire 40-minute performance, even yawn as loud as she could during the solo. The chair was stiff, the air was cold, and the performance hadn't even begun yet. 

Crossing her arms, Isla slumped in her too-stiff chair and waited as the first bow was drawn across the strings.  

And instantly, there was warmth. 

Unexplainable warmth submerged the entire room with contentment even though its source was only a small orchestra. Notes bounced off the walls of the auditorium, swirling with emotion and passion. 

It was the first time Isla had experienced such emotion from simple notes--the first time the dancing tune had spoken to her and caressed her hair. And it wasn't the last. For she bounced up and down after the concert and told her father, "Dad! I want to become a musician!"

Her parent grinned, "Are you sure? Having an instrument is a lot of responsibility..."

"I know that! I'm ready, Dad! I'll practice for however many hours! However many nights!" 

She got her first violin shortly after that, handmade by her father.  

She watched as he meticulously carved wood and adjusted strings-- as he delicately glued each piece together and was determined to make it to the best of his ability.

And she loved it: she practiced every day, she honed her skill and passion to the finest of its ability until her fingertips were raw and her hands cramped. She silently crept behind the famous violinists, sniping them from the back until she was the one having the gold medal hung around her neck. 

And her dad was there every step of the way. Lending a shoulder to cry on after a spoiled performance, rubbing ointment onto her tired fingers, and playing her a lullaby before she went to sleep.

"You will shine brighter than any star in the sky," her father always told her while the sound of his instrument serenaded Isla, melting any source of distress. 

He was always there for her.

Until he wasn't. 

Until disease grasped him by the neck and wrung the essence out of him-- until his hand turned cold and his heartbeat stopped.

All that was left was her father's handmade violin as her only companion.

The instrument was like a 3rd arm to Isla. The bow, a finger. When her father passed, the violin was there to catch her tears, both from sorrow and joy. So what was she supposed to do if the world no longer needed music? 

How would her calloused hands fit into society's silkened gloves that thought they were beyond it? 

And that's what the world had become: a world devoid of colors and joy.

Isla now stood in front of her favorite auditorium, clutching her violin as the "closing" flyers billowed in the wind. She had known the funds were getting strained, and she had known that the new generation no longer appreciated classical music or any music at that. Her once-adoring crowd were either all dead or moved on. 

She and her violin were alone again. 

What's the use of making music if you have no one to enjoy it? What's the use of creating something so dazzling and so unique if you're the only one who bears the knowledge? Would it still be dazzling? Would it continue to be unique? 

She didn't know. 

Perhaps she would never know. 

Isla had no other choice than to practice in her father's old studio. 

__

The room was the same: foam blocks that lined the walls for soundproofing, music sheets and notes stacked together, and boxes upon boxes. 

She never went into the room after he had passed away, for it brought too many unwanted memories, too many things that could've been. Despite the lack of cleaning within the few years, everything was in order, save for the single manilla envelope astray on the desk.

'An envelope?' 

Tentatively, she broke the seal and pulled out a letter. 

"To Isla, my shining star."

The girl fought the tears that were threatening to unfold, for what graced her glossy eyes was the handwriting of her father.

'No, I have to read on.' 

And so she did. 

And when she finished, she clutched the note close to her heart, where her father would always reside, careful to wipe away tears that might smudge his penmanship, for the letter contained all the answers she had ever hoped for. 

Dabbing the remainder of her tears, she gently grasped her violin and stepped out the door, tuning her instrument along the way. She was no longer afraid of --no longer fearing if society didn't glance twice at music anymore.

She stood near the fountain and then began to play the song her father always did. 

Her song--her lullaby. 

Who cared if no one would hear her beautiful playing? Her father in the heavens would, no matter how small or large her audience would be. 

But soon, a crowd did appear: children going astray from their mothers, teenagers who haven't heard this sort of music before, and elderly, joyful to listen to their songs again. 

The hairs of her bow touched the strings so gently, embodying the warmth she felt when she heard a performance for the first time, letting the sound ricochet and reverberate all throughout the town square.

The crowd grew. Some were swaying, some were laughing, and some were crying. The noises and emotions mixed in harmony with the violin's playing, creating an even more refined sound. 

Isla projected all her love and all her sorrows into the piece. And when she was done, the crowd burst to life, applauding as if their hands were on fire.

Tears were streaming down her eyes as she looked at the sky, almost envisioning her father's proud features in the clouds. 

She smiled.

And amidst the ocean of her audience, she shone brighter than any star in the sky.