The identity of the music maker

Harry pov

A peculiar sensation washed over me, i was me devoid of any discernible emotions, as if I had transformed into an entirely different being. My soul had been ravaged by anguish to the extent that I now inhabited a realm of numbed sensations.

Seated in the lecture hall, a customary solitude enveloping me, I gazed through the window, indifferent to the professor's words imploring my attention. From that vantage point, the hall afforded a view of the university administration building—a place we harbored a deep-seated aversion toward for multifarious reasons, with the enigmatic figure of the aged Vladimir standing at its heart. Despite our protracted presence within those walls, the true nature of his role in that university remained elusive. A stern and unyielding man, his irate shouts accompanied any student's approach to the edifice. Consequently, the students regarded me with eyes that seemed to envision me as the fated hero destined to avenge their plight, as if I were capable of traversing the threshold unscathed by the old man's thunderous rebukes.

On that particular day, I beheld Vladimir pushing a girl in close proximity to the building. She made no move, silently gathered her belongings, leaving behind a cascade of unanswered questions in my mind. Just as in that night within the library, she exhibited the ability to disregard the presence of me around her.

"What captures your attention?" inquired the girl seated before me, abruptly shattering my reverie. In that instant, my gaze returned to the professor, who now stood at the board, meticulously explaning the lesson while the remaining students remained adrift within the confines of their own private worlds. These ethereal domains, concealed within each of us, were realms we guarded secretively, regardless of their content, unable to sever the profound connection we maintained with them. My own realm teemed with memories I longed to consign to oblivion."Has Vladimir the eccentric done something amusing? I have never witnessed you smile before," interjected the girl."Perhaps," I replied, the smile dissipating into thin air. It struck me as peculiar that I had begun to enumerate the instances in which a smile graced my countenance—this being the second occasion since reading her message that night, the first instance.As the lectures concluded, I made my way to the library to return the book before embarking upon the journey back to my recently acquired dwelling within the dormitory. This chamber, the sole vacancy in the girls' quarters, had become my chosen abode. Another night drifted by, bereft of the melodies that once emanated from my soul. For a second time, I discovered a message from her—the girl whose name remained elusive—imploring me to play late into the night. However, on this night, I didn't play. Days and nights melded together, devoid of my musical offerings, until that neglected corner of the room burgeoned with her missives. It was then that hope waned, and my correspondence with her came to an end.

Sarah POV

I was always the last person to leave the dormitory for the university. Unlike the other girls, I didn't engage in morning exercises, I didn't have a date to care about, and I didn't have a job to leave for at dawn. That day, after preparing my bag, I approached the door of the room to open it and found a box.

"I should have answered this question before; I'm not a genie, I'm a human. Thank you for not getting tired of that terrible music I used to make," were the words written on that box, which became clear after I opened it, revealing a piece of apple cake.

Harry POV

Perhaps you believed that it would all cease at that point when I decided to relinquish playing. The piano had been my sole means of forging friendships and connections with others, and therein lay the source of the misfortunes that befell me. Perhaps, if that girl had discovered my plight, she would have attempted to draw near, as had happened years ago, and the outcome would invariably be a sorrowful one. It was nine o'clock in the evening when I sat on the bed, engrossed in a borrowed book from the library. A month had passed without me touching the piano, without receiving those messages imploring me to play once more. I, too, had forgotten, just as everyone does. For my music was cherished by all, yet no one loved that melancholic man who composed such melodies.