My Broken Bond, Their Unending Pain

d the day they brought home Faye, a fourteen-year-old orphan they

promised trip to Paris, and dismissed

ore my master score to shreds. When I tried to stop her, she fa

at, before burning the rest of my symphony in front

a world-renowned composer whose work saved millions. When my brothers, broken by regre

I said. "Do

pte

ld paper and wood that usually clung to our home. My brothers, Clinton and Edgar, walked in, not with the usual tired greetings

nt eyes and a practiced, demure smile. She was fourteen, they said, an orphan, a piano prodigy. They'd "taken h

instrument. It was a 1920s Selmer saxophone, a piece of art, perfectly restored. My parents had told m

it w

me home gift." Faye's fingers, slender and unfamiliar, traced the

arely a whisper, yet it cut through the r

rm draped possessively over her shoulder. "You

o. 1 in C minor. It was my heart, my soul, poured onto those pages. The sax

oice flat, turning to me suddenly as if just noticing my presence.

ty of air. Noise. My symphony. The culmination of ye

. The city of lights, of history, of music. I'd been dreaming of it since I was a child. My paren

usiasm I hadn't seen directed at me in years. "Which patisserie would

ells. "Oh, anything you choose, M

one I'd researched, the one I'd been exp

a ghost in my own home, unseen, unheard, unloved. But the symphony. It was still t

n-year isolated composition fellowship in Europe. A chance

ll I had left of my parents. But my heart was a bruised, battered thing. It couldn't take a

stant picked up, her voice crisp and unwelcoming. "Mr. Benson is

il. I left a message, my voice trembling slightly. "Edgar, it's Clar

d, a useless brick. It was Christmas Eve. The festive

y laptop, the deadline looming. Professor Middleton' s words echoed in my mind, "T

stairs. Faye' s bright, clear voice. My brothers

d Clinton's personal line. It rang. And rang.

istant not to put anyone through.

, my voice barely a whisper. "I j

. "Merry Christmas. Now, if

wanted to ask if we could spend some time toget

. She's had such a difficult life. We can't jus

veryone. Even Faye. I got her that limited edition sheet mus

ye picked it up herself last week. And anyway, I don't appre

cked. "I just wanted

ble. She feels like you're competing with her. We're trying to give her a stable

it was my fault. Ev

eaded, a raw ache in my throat. "I can l

bout to have Christmas brunch." The line c

cturnes, painstakingly tracked down, now useless. I had spent nearly all my savings on these presents, hopi

. And for Faye, the sheet music, along with a delicate silver locket. I had imagined her delight, Edgar's approving nod, Clinton's fleeting sm

dhood home. It felt like a museum now, a place where I was no longer wel

to make myself small, invisible. I rang the bell, then

see Edgar, laughing, and Faye, draped in a silk robe, her hands restin

Clinton said, his vo

aged, pushing the bag in

se, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it v

! For me?" She bounced up from the piano. She

t's beautiful! Thank you, Clara!" she chirped. The silver

lush rug, the locket flying from her hand. It

r cried, rus

es a mask of pure terror. They knelt beside her

ke, scraping my knee badly. My parents were away, as usual. Clinton and Edgar had been there, but they' d just to

gaze, initially filled with concern for Faye, hard

help. I took a step forward, my ha

ce myself. My palm hit the sharp corner of the side table, a searing pain shootin

ith pure fury. "Are you really so desperate for attention you ha

, my eyes welling up. The pain in my hand was

ill sweet, turning to look at me, a tiny, almost imperceptib

lf upright. I pressed my injured pa

yes blazing. "You always have to make everything about you, don't you? Trying t

others had perfected the art of twisting my intentions, of making me the villain. I stood in silence, the throbbing in my hand a