Erik sits with a hunched back in the back room of the shop, the weak light from the workbench casting trembling shadows on the walls. A clean surgical mask wraps around his fragile features like a tight band, trying to hide the disfigurement underneath. In it lives the cold, gray breath of memory, the feeling of abandonment, a trace of Christine's mother. Christine had found the masks in the attic, along with Gustave's worn clothes. The memory of a slow death echoes through the house again and again.
The musty, stale smell that had filled the back room until recently has been replaced by a soft, floral scent. The expensive fabric softener and the cheap bath products have made their mark. As if, little by little, life is finding its way back into this small, inconspicuous house.
And even in the punk, however bleak it may seem, something glimmers. Erik's hair, which used to stick to him greasy and dull, now stands up fluffy and shiny from his head. He wears Gustave's old clothes – a shapeless checkered shirt that flutters around his body like a tent, and jeans that sag around his legs. In the right size, he would barely be distinguishable from a "normal" person. But in these oversized clothes, he looks like a clown.

Despite everything he has already experienced here, Erik doesn't feel like a human – more like a foreign body in this new world.

A broken, helpless drop drifting on the waves of life.

There he sits now, hunched over on a small stool, his thin fingers wrapped around a violin, desperately pulling at its string. Gustave, sitting calmly behind him and looking over his shoulder, had offered him the chance to learn the art of violin-making. Maybe he did it as a gesture of compassion, maybe from some inexplicable urge to give the lost punk some hope. The violin maker speaks for the first time into the silence.
"Are you musical type?"
Erik doesn't look up, his thin hand tightening as he threads the string through the small hole in the peg. "No, sir," he murmurs quietly. His hands tremble, but he straightens his back and lifts himself a little, pulling the string through the small hole with a jerk. "Done!" he says, a note of pride in his voice.
"But I heard you sing, in the city," Gustave says, sounding almost… surprised? "You're good!"
"I... well... it's nothing special," Erik mumbles hastily. He turns the peg, only feeling the uncomfortable tingling in his fingertips. It's as if the music lives somewhere inside him – but it cannot reach him.
"Singing in the city, in front of an audience... that's... nothing special."
"Ah, so-so," grumbles the old man, amused.
Gustave leans forward, gently takes Erik's hand, and holds it firmly. The young man wants to turn away, pull his hand back, but the grip is calm and determined. Gustave shows him how to guide the hand on the peg. "Gentle," he says in a calm, fatherly voice. "You're impatient. If you turn it slower, you will find the feel for the music that is still hiding."
The old man, tall and strong, is almost leaning over Erik like a giant shadow, taking away his breath. Erik feels small, overwhelmed – as if all the shame inside him, the restlessness in the air, could tear him apart.
"Better," murmurs Gustave, a proud grin sneaking across his face, then he straightens up. "Ah, my back... always a problem," he says, as he presses his hands against his lower back, and a dull crack is heard.
"I think you have talent..." Gustave begins, but his words are cut off as a noise from the shop rings out. The sound of the shop doorbell, which echoes in Erik’s ears like a scream.
"Stay seated and keep going," says Gustave casually, and shuffles out of the workshop. Erik, who looks after him, lowers his head. A grim silence falls over the room as he refocuses on the violin.

Talent?

He had only tightened a string. What was so talented about that? What was special about it? No one had ever believed in him.

A deformed nobody.

Maybe he sang once in a while, when the other punks gathered at the station and strummed their guitars. But what was that compared to what the world understood as talent?
He places the violin on the workbench and reaches for the teacup. Thoughtfully, he turns the cup in his hands, the hot mint tea steaming and smelling good – so peaceful. Then he pulls the mask down under his chin to take a sip. No one will ever truly see him as talented. No one, except maybe Gustave.

And that was the worst part.
That damned kindness.

Voices come from the shop area. Gustave steps into the back room, his gaze briefly fixed on Erik's disfigured face, then the old man smiles gently. Erik quickly pulls the mask back up.
"So-"
"I have special customer. A policeman," says Gustave casually, searching for a packed violin from the pickup shelf. Erik jumps off the stool, sets the cup he was holding aside. Gustave’s smile breaks. This reaction is a clear signal.
"Wait here," says the old man, and leaves again.

Desperately, Erik grabs Sasha and hastily lifts her up, rushing to the window.
Maybe he could escape.
Maybe he could just… disappear through the window. The height wasn’t too great, maybe he would only sprain his foot if he was unlucky, maybe worse.
But behind him, Gustave’s calm but firm voice sounds.
"You are not a bird. If you want to leave, go through the door."
Erik spins around. Gustave stands calmly and confidently, his arms crossed in front of his chest as if he were the rock on which everything else rebounds.
"Sit down, Pojke," he commands, "Tell me."
It’s over. The charade has come to an end. Erik knows it. And Gustave knows it too. The lies he has told himself, the excuses he has stumbled through life with, are gradually crumbling.
"I was hungry," Erik begins, his voice breaking as he spits out the words. "I’m not good at begging. But in the trash bins... in the trash bins, there's less and less food. So..." He falters, the pain unbearable.

What should he have done?
What could he have done?

"I was just hungry..." he whispers, the words like a pray. "I was hungry."
"And you got caught?" Gustave asks gently, almost cautiously.
"Yes," Erik murmurs, "but I managed to escape..."
"When?"
"Yesterday..."
The old man rubs his temples, then his eyes. "Did you take anything here as well?"
"NO!" The panic tears through his voice. "I would never..."
"I believe you," says Gustave as he raises his hand to calm Erik. "Violins aren’t edible," he adds with a gruff grin. Then he disappears from the workshop.
Erik is left frozen, his shoulders twitching from anxiety.

The violin maker is gone again – will he come back with the policeman?

Shortly after, he returns, a plate with a sandwich on it. It’s such a simple gesture, so unimaginably simple, that Erik finds no words. Gustave places the sandwich on the workbench.
"Eat." The depth of his voice thunders through the room, and Erik flinches. But he obeys. Slowly, as if he needs to give himself permission to live, he reaches for the sandwich. The smell of fresh tomatoes, soft bread, and tangy cheese fills the air, and for the first time in a long time, something feels really good. 

Each bite is a painful smile he absorbs within himself. 

It tastes so different. So much better than anything he’s ever known. Tonight, he won’t have stomach pains from spoiled food or lie awake hungry. "You’ll work off your debts here," Gustave says firmly. "I expect you to show up on time. To drink tea and eat lunch. No criminal activities outside the shop. You will work off your violin values. So behave."
"Yes, sir," says Erik softly, as always, as if he has no other choice.

"And don't call me Sir!"