From a distance an old man looked at me with glassy eyes. He was with my father, who looked haggard beside him. My father motioned towards me and the two began walking. I stood with the water fountain at my back and a stone in my shoe. The townsfolk were all hurrying about their own business. The old man continued to stare at me as they approached. I was still just a young boy. I fidgeted at his gaze. I looked down unable to keep hold of it for long. I could still feel the stone in my shoe and attempted to shake it to a more comfortable position. My father and the old man came closer. I flinched when I noticed them in front of me. I continued to look down towards the pale red cobblestone floor, trying not to think about the stone in my shoe. Trying not to think about anything at all. The old man lifted my chin up with a finger, meeting my eyes to his. He looked to my father.

“He will do,” he said. “How much?” 
“What?” My father asked confused, angry. The old man sighed, exasperated. “What we were talking about before,” he muttered impatiently. “How much about music does the boy know? What can he play?”
“Oh,” my father responded. “I ugh…I don’t really… well, not much in terms of playing I guess. He’s not touched an instrument before but he loves listening.” 
“I thought you said…” the old man began indignant. 
“Honestly, sir,” my father cut in. “I hardly remember what you were talking about except that you were looking for an apprentice. My boy is a good boy, a hard worker. That’s what you said you needed. He’s a good boy.”

Even in my dreams my memories haunt me. It is dark when I awaken once again, shaking, and sweat dripping off me. I drink more water from the pitcher beside me. I sigh. I go back to sleep, awake, drink, and go back to sleep again. I repeat this over and over in a haze. I don’t remember anything when I next wake, my fever broken and the sun has begun to rise.

How long was I out for?

I reach for my water pitcher. It is filled to the brim once again. I try to remember what has happened. Concert, sleeping, doctor, practice, singing lady. The hairs on my back stand up. Who was that? In the quiet calm early hours of morning it did not seem to matter.

Practice. Practice matters. I stand up from bed, slightly wobbly on my feet and reach for my violin.

 Blood rushes from my face.

My violin is not there.

I scan the room. I search under the covers of my bed; I look underneath my bed and find only the small carpet that lay underneath it. I open my cupboard and upend the few pieces of clothing I own, I search drawers, I look outside the window and then rush into the hallway.

There is no one awake. I hear the snoring of apprentices. I see a door ajar.

I know who that room belongs to. Mikhail.

I march towards the room and pull the door open, nearly slamming it against the wall.

Did he take it? Who else could have stolen it? But why? Did his father want it back? 

The room is a copy of mine. An open window blows the curtains inwards, letting in the morning sun. I walk into the room and shut the window. There is an unmade bed, cupboard, writing desk and a mirror where I see the whole room and myself reflected.

Myself and no one else.