By evening, the house was finally livable again. When Marie woke up and stepped out of her room, she surveyed the place with a critical eye. Then she addressed the exhausted figures slumped on the couch.

“Not bad,” she said. “You could have done this from the beginning. Why let the house turn into a garbage dump? Next time I find it like that, you will start paying rent. Rest for now. Charlie and I are going out for a walk. Dinner should be ready when we get back.”

She took her purse, held Charlie’s hand, and led him outside.

They passed by his school and the park where he often played with his friends. They bought ice cream and sat on a bench, the evening air finally cool enough to breathe.

“How was school this year?” Marie asked. “Any bad teachers? Anyone bothering you?”

“No,” Charlie said quickly. “It was fun. I told you about the music class on the phone. The violin is marvelous. You need to hear the sound it makes. It’s something wondrous.”

He chose his words carefully, repeating the new ones he had learned, wanting her to see that he was doing well, that he was trying.

Marie smiled and gently rubbed his head. “Good. I will remember to listen to it someday. And the house? Anything new?”

“Same as before. Dad comes home late and sleeps until evening. Mom watches TV. Michel plays games with his friends in the attic. I do my homework and sometimes walk the neighbor’s dog.”

“You like dogs?” she asked. “Should I get you a puppy?”

“No,” Charlie said quickly, shaking his head. “I can’t take care of one yet. Maybe when I grow up.”

“Deal,” Marie said. “When you feel ready, tell me, and I will bring you one. For now, let’s go back. It’s getting dark.”

The next day after lunch, Marie told Charlie to change his clothes. “We’re going out,” she said.

Charlie’s heart leapt. He changed as fast as he could. They took a taxi, and when it stopped, Charlie looked up at the massive doors in front of them. It took him a moment to read the letters above.

Performing Arts Center.

He assumed they were there to watch a play, but once inside, they ignored the signs pointing toward the theater and went in the opposite direction.

When Marie saw him standing there, dumbfounded by the vast hall, she leaned down and explained, “This is a concert hall. Music is performed here. I think we are going to enjoy ourselves.”

They took their seats, and the performance began soon after. The conductor raised his baton, guiding the entire orchestra without a single word. Charlie let the sound wash over him, his eyes fixed on the violinists as he memorized the way their bows moved and their fingers pressed the strings.

After the second piece ended, Marie leaned closer and whispered, “Pay attention. You are going to love the next one.”

She was right. Charlie would remember that final performance for the rest of his life. It was mesmerizing, unlike anything his classroom teacher had ever played.

This time, a violinist stood beside the conductor, leading while the orchestra followed. It did not take long for Charlie to recognize the music. Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto. The soloist launched into a restless, soaring melody that grew more intense as it climbed.

The three movements flowed without pause, capturing his soul and forcing a decision upon him. He wanted to be like that soloist, to turn silent marks on paper into living sound, a work filled with lyricism and virtuosity.