Melody's Muse ✓

6. Schubert - Wanderer Fantasy in C Major, Op.15.

Melody

"Oh my gosh, this place is amazing," Alyssa gushes as soon as she walks through the front door. Her wide green eyes practically glow against the reflection of the foyer's bright chandelier.

I shrug. I've been meaning to properly explore the place, but it doesn't feel like anything more than a frivolous task. There are plenty of more productive things I could be doing with my time instead. "It's an apartment. As long as it's clean and functional, I'm happy."

She just rolls her eyes as she takes off her thick knitted scarf, wrapped multiple times around her neck. "Oh Mel, so many people would kill to have what you have."

"Of course I'm grateful," I defend. Mom and dad and I used to live in a tiny apartment, probably one eighth the size of the house mom and I live in now. Thin walls, noisy neighbours, creaky floorboards, and leaking pipes - but it always felt like a home. That feeling is nothing but a distant memory now. "It's just a bit much, you know how my mom can be."

She chuckles. "Yeah. Aunt Annie sure is something. It's been like twelve years but I still remember your seventh birthday."

It happened to overlap with the week I played at Carnegie Hall for the first time. Mom was ecstatic and went all out with an enormous party to celebrate. In hindsight, she was probably more excited about my performance than my birthday. I just remember a vague blur of music, lights, and fireworks.

I lead her down the long hall, illuminated by miniature chandeliers hung along the ceiling to the kitchen. We pass fancy paintings that I have absolutely no idea who painted and colourful flowers I don't know who has been watering. She takes a seat on one of the metallic silver bar stools along the kitchen island.

"Care for a drink?"

She perks up. "Got any wine?"

I take a peek past the crystal clear glass door into the sleek, dark wooden wine cabinet. The racks are full of bottles. I pick a red wine in a fancy looking green tinted bottle with a minimalist matte black label. My knowledge of alcohol is limited to some wines from vineyards mom dragged me to on my days "off."

After some scrounging, I manage to find a couple of wine glasses. I also make a mental note to label all of these cabinets.

"Oh my gosh, how do you even read this?" Alyssa's eyes are wide as I take a seat next to her.

She's flipping through a tattered grey folder I left on the island last night. It's full of partially completed pieces I've worked on. It's like a musical graveyard. Most pieces have been abandoned, dates scribbled in the corners go years back. Pencil markings are smudged over the pages, leaving blurry musical notes over unevenly drawn bars. Erased notes are still clearly visible, having pressed my pencil hard enough to permanently engrave the paper. Some pages have holes from jabbing my pencil into them out of frustration during exhausting late night writing.

"It's kind of amazing," she murmurs, still scanning the pages, "you're so quiet sometimes but you can turn music into these stories without even any words. I still remember listening to you play when we were little."

"Thanks Liss," I chuckle. "Most of those aren't very good though."

She slides the folder over to me, and I flip to the last page. "This is the only one in this book that I finished." 

It's a short piece inspired by Schubert's Wanderer Fantasy in C Major, Op.15. It never saw the light of day though. I was never satisfied with it, even after months of trying. I decided I had to stop before it drove me insane.