Charlie hadn’t had a chance to play the mirror duet as a whole piece since leaving his violin at the luthier’s workshop. He had been practicing intensively, keeping pace with the young girl’s natural talent so she wouldn’t leave him behind. Over time, the tuning pegs wore out, and the strings had dropped in pitch, making repairs necessary.

While thinking about the duet, he realized he hadn’t given it a name yet. As he pondered, a sharp smell of smoke reached him. “It’s probably the old man downstairs burning garbage again,” he muttered. “At least he’s doing it during working hours, or the neighbors would be complaining.”

Charlie planned to set an alarm for tomorrow to pick up his violin, but when he noticed the date, a thought froze him. The old man usually visited his daughter across the city at this time every week. Then where was the smoke coming from?

He stepped outside his room—and froze. He stepped outside his room—and froze. The corridor was engulfed in flames, waves of fire climbing toward the ceiling. The narrow hallways were cluttered with combustible items—tables, chairs, plants—that tenants often stored outside to save space in their small rooms. There was no path forward, and the windows were barred.

Choking on smoke, he stumbled into his room and fumbled to call the emergency services. Adults might be at work, but children were still in the building. He forced out his address, then reached for another number, but his voice grew weaker. His words trailed off into a faint whisper as he slipped toward unconsciousness. “My violin… tomorrow… the luthier…”

On the other end of the line, panic set in. “Charlie! What happened? Can you hear me? Charlie, speak to me!”

Later, at a flower shop near Charlie’s house

Two young men hesitated among the bouquets.

“We want to take a bouquet to visit the family of our friend who passed away recently,” one said softly.

The florist’s eyes were kind but sad. “I’m very sorry for your loss. I recommend tulips—they’re a beautiful choice, symbolizing hope and encouragement.”

A debit card was handed over. “We’ll take two bouquets. Thank you.”

Arriving at Charlie’s home, they rang the bell. Slow footsteps approached, and a woman with a pale face and eyes shadowed by grief opened the door.

“Hello, is this the house of Charlie’s family?”

When she heard his name, sorrow seemed to settle heavier on her shoulders. “Yes, please come in.”

They placed the flowers on the table and sat on the couch. 

“We are Charlie’s classmates,” one said. “ We just heard the news from one of his close friends. We are so sorry for your loss and wish you peace during this difficult time.”

The other added, “We grieve with you in this painful time. His memory will live on in your hearts—and ours.”

The lady smiled faintly. “We are grateful for friends like you during this sorrow. His mother is still bedridden; I wish she could hear you, to know that her son was not just a good son, but a true friend to you, coming all this way rather than sending only a note of condolences. He was always a sweet kid… By the way, I am Marie, his aunt.”