The sun breaks through the morning fog, casting the first, delicate rays of light through the small window in the back room. The scent of fresh mint tea slowly fills the room, blending with the shady, warm atmosphere. Next to the workbench sits a tall, slender figure. The sweater, long faded and bleached at the edges by sunlight, carries the subtle scent of fabric softener, which mixes with the mint tea. Erik is lost in thought as his skilled fingers stretch the strings of an old violin. He carefully turns the pegs, adjusting them slightly until the sound reaches a basic tension. Then he runs his fingertip over the string, testing how it vibrates. A nearly whispering tone breaks the silence, a tentative test. He then places the violin under his chin, reaches for the bow, and sets it in place.

A hellish, shrill sound screeches through the workshop and echoes out into the shop. Gustave rushes back, his eyes wide. "What was that?!", he calls out in concern. Erik quickly turns around. "Nothing!", he replies as if he'd already expected the question. "I hear exactly a cry for help from violin!" Gustave is impatient, then hears the thumping of stairs – Christine arrives, breathless. "What was that?!", she asks.

"Erik!", Gustave shouts.
"The violin!", Erik shouts back.
Sasha barks excitedly. Hastily, the young man sets the bow and violin aside, jumps off the stool, and lifts the puppy up. He presses the puppy to his chest like a shield.
"I've never heard anything like that!", Christine whispers to her father. "I can't remember ever experiencing something like this," murmurs Gustave, patting his hands against his pants. "Älskling, go please to the customers." Then he turns back to Erik, walking towards him with a determined expression. "Pojke, take the violin!" he grumbles, and Erik quickly sets the dog down, grabs the violin and the bow. Gustave stands beside him, his large hands correcting Erik's tense fingers. "Hold it like this," he murmurs, gently but firmly positioning Erik's hands. "And the bow like this, yes... that's good. Pojke, you have the hands for music. You just need to use them correctly."

He steps back and watches Erik, who nervously shakes as he holds the violin. "Play," he demands, and Erik swallows hard. Slowly and cautiously, he draws the bow across the strings. The sound that emerges is rough and uneven, the strings not tight enough, making the sound sad and dull. The bow hesitates at certain spots, but the screeching stops. Erik pauses and glances at Gustave. The old man grins contentedly. "Better!" he calls out with a smile, giving Erik a friendly pat on the shoulder.

For the next few afternoons, Erik stays longer than usual. Gustave lends him an old violin that has seen a lot. The varnish is worn, the pegs are no longer original, but the instrument carries a history that Erik absorbs silently and respectfully. He begins practicing with simple scales. Gustave listens attentively as Erik starts experimenting with the bowing technique. "Try to lead the bow evenly and make the tones clearer," he advises. Erik concentrates, immersing himself in the movements, and then suddenly stops, taking a deep, heavy breath. "Did you stop breathing?" Gustave laughs. "So focused! Good student!"

A few afternoons later, the two stand side by side. Gustave holds his own violin and teaches Erik a melody by Vivaldi. "You’re really talented, Pojke. I already saw it, these hands have passion. You also have enough brains, you just have to use them."

Erik lowers his gaze, his expression empty. He doesn't believe a single word of it.

"This is a beautiful piece," Gustave says in a calm voice, "but it requires a lot of feeling. I think you have the feeling in your fingers. Do you also have it in your heart?"
Together, they work on the more difficult passages. Gustave shows Erik how to slightly lift the bow to emphasize certain notes. He frequently stops, correcting the bow position or tempo, giving feedback, and encouraging him to continue. "Imagine you're telling a story with your violin. How do you feel the music?" asks Gustave. Erik stares thoughtfully at the worn violin, then at the sheet music. How he feels the music, he doesn't know. Sometimes, he doesn't know what he feels at all, other than an immense emptiness, an energy that always seems to be lacking.

He feels nothing.

Except for this emptiness.

The silence that has surrounded him for so long feels frightening, as if it's suffocating him. Then, without looking at Gustave – too vulnerable, too defenseless in that moment – he takes off the mask and hastily shoves it into his pocket. The punk inhales and closes his eyes.

He places the violin on his collarbone and starts playing. The notes come out uncertainly, but Erik works through the piece with a pounding heart. Some sections are still shaky, he struggles to find the right bow stroke. And at the end, he stops, and there is a moment of stillness.

Then Gustave claps his hands together, satisfied. "Very good. Pojke, I’m proud of you."

"But it can be better," Erik murmurs, dejected, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"No, nooo Erik, Pojke!" Gustave shakes his head, steps closer, and looks him seriously in the face. "You’re really talented. So few hours of music lessons, and you played an entire piece!"
"This is... nothing special..." Erik lets the words slip out, exhausted. They taste bitter, like an uncomfortable, heavy feeling that has followed him for a long time. "I should just quit," he adds softly, almost to himself. The thought of putting the instrument aside feels like a form of relief. Maybe it would be better if he’d never learned anything, never started – then he wouldn’t have to fail.

"Pojke!" Gustave’s voice becomes sharper, more penetrating, almost like a command. "You can't compare yourself! You have no idea how many hours of practice go into Vivaldi!"
Erik falls silent, staring at the worn violin still in his hand. Gustave is, of course, right – maybe he has talent, but he doesn't feel it. The doubt that constantly gnaws at him drowns out any feeling of pride.

What if I never had anything to offer?

What if everything I do is always just inadequate?

These thoughts echo like a constant companion in his head, whispering that he will never be enough. The music may come from his fingers, but it is never more than a flickering shadow that slips farther away with every attempt.

A cold tremor spreads in his chest as he feels the emptiness inside. This emptiness that never gets filled. This silence that lives inside him is the only thing he seems to know. Nothing he does seems worth it. Nothing is ever enough. And in this moment, while Gustave is still speaking to him, the music feels like an irony. He knows he will never truly escape, that he will never truly arrive.

He closes his eyes and presses the violin tighter against himself, as if it could offer him comfort. But the comfort doesn't come.
He’s not good enough.
He will never be good enough.
And in this moment, in this coldness, it feels almost as if the music only reveals more of the abyss of his own inadequacy.

Gustave, seeing the tremor in Erik's posture, steps even closer and places a rough hand on Erik’s shoulder. His voice is warm but determined. "Pojke, you are not... you are not like others. You have the ear, the feeling. But you need to understand, music is not just what the fingers do... Music is heart, it is life! You have the heart, Pojke. You can’t just leave that out. Trust me, I see it in you. You have the talent – but you need to believe that you are worth it."
Erik feels the warmth of the hand on his shoulder and looks at Gustave, confused.
"But... I... am... empty... there is nothing." His voice nearly breaks as he speaks the words that feel like an old, buried secret.
"You are never empty, Pojke," says Gustave calmly, his voice full of warmth. "You... you are like the sea. Sometimes it looks calm, but you just have to dive deep enough, and you’ll find all the treasures inside you. You just have to trust that you can make the journey. The emptiness you feel is just the beginning. There is so much more inside you. It’s not about knowing everything right away. You have to give yourself time."

Erik looks at him, feeling like a lost child trying to understand a foreign language.

"Do... you mean it?" Erik asks quietly, almost unbelieving.
"Yes," says Gustave, and the older man gently pulls Erik into an embrace, surprisingly firm and warm. Erik stays stiff at first, unable to react, but then he feels the knot in his chest slowly loosen.
"It will get better, Pojke. You are good. You are more than you think," murmurs Gustave, and the words echo in Erik’s mind, softly but powerfully. They ignite a spark within him that slowly begins to glow.