Meanwhile, in another part of the city, in the northern section of the capital, Charles's mansion gleamed in the night like a majestic shadow. Its blue roofs and white columns appeared cold under the moonlight, and the stained-glass windows scattered the flickering candlelight outside; as if hidden eyes in the darkness were awake.
Inside the hall, the scent of aged wood and burnt wax lingered, and golden frames with indistinct faces silently watched the guests.
Charles stood in the music room, adjusting his violin strings.
The candlelight gently fell on his face, casting a small shadow across it.
In a large, shallow bowl, several "intestines" were soaking in water, which had turned blood-red. Charles carefully took them out, washing each one thoroughly to remove any trace of blood or impurities.
He then picked up a blunt knife from the table and carefully scraped off the fatty layers and extra membranes, as if freeing the core of the intestine from its sheath.
Next, he soaked the intestines in an alkaline solution to soften them and increase their flexibility. When they were sufficiently prepared, he cut them into narrow strips with precision, layering several strands together.
Holding the strips in his hands, he began twisting them. The more even the twists, the stronger and more resonant the string would be, so he performed this step with meticulous care, as it was the most crucial part of the process.
He then stretched the strands onto a wooden frame and left them to dry in the warm room. Maintaining tension during this stage was critical to ensure uniform thickness.
Sweat dripped from his forehead as he took a deep breath. The candlelight gently illuminated the walls.
Charles then picked up a glass and a bottle of aged wine from the table, poured some into the glass, and brought it close to his nose. He swirled it, letting the aroma rise, his pupils dilating, then took a small sip and smiled faintly.
He waited for the strings to dry, using the time to sketch the intestines in his notebook. After about an hour, the strings were dry and ready for the final stage.
He retrieved a soft sandpaper from a drawer and polished the strings until their surface was smooth, preparing them to be installed on the violin. Then he took some sweet almond oil from his drawer and carefully rubbed it on the strings to enhance their durability and prevent any odor.
Finally, he picked up a violin made of maple wood and fitted the strings, taking some time to tune the instrument. Now it was ready to play.
Charles gently began playing his newly strung violin. Each note, each moment, created a magnificent symphony.
The music filled the mansion like the song of angels. Charles closed his eyes, fully immersed in his performance. After some time, the performance ended—a flawless, extraordinary execution.
He then took his notebook and, under the sketches of the strings, wrote:
"Elizabeth Henry's intestines sang of death and life, exuding an aroma of eternity and the love of music, in memory of Elizabeth, who now lives forever in a piece of music. 896/07/28"
He poured a bit more wine into his glass, swirled it, lifted it, and smiled, saying:
"To Elizabeth, who created from nothing, and whose existence will be eternal in music."
He took a careful sip, then picked up the violin and carried it along with his glass of wine back to his study.
The dark wood danced in the candlelight, and the classic paintings in golden frames seemed to watch him with mysterious, penetrating gazes.
A massive library in the corner was filled with old, worn books, the scent of ink and age filling the air. A large wooden desk, scattered with extinguished candles, notebooks, and small framed photos of students and personal moments, revealed the meticulous nature of its owner. In the corner, a fireplace glowed softly, giving off gentle warmth.
On the desk were small details: pens, old seals, and a pocket watch—each reflecting his precision and fastidiousness.
Charles sat behind the desk, looking at a framed photo. He touched the frame, closed his eyes, and his face filled with deep sorrow. Then he whispered:
"My daughter Misha, these 7 years without you in this merciless world have weighed on me like a mountain on my shoulders."
He opened his eyes, a tear rolling down, and whispered softly:
"Just a little longer… the music is in the middle of its performance… I am close to finishing… and then we will meet again."
He leaned back in his chair and took a small wooden box from his drawer. The box was dark wood, polished smooth, beautiful and shining. He opened it, revealing a necklace with a golden crystal at its center.
Charles lifted the box gently, smiling, and said:
"My final gift to you…"
He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at the photo—a girl about thirteen, with green eyes, blonde hair, wearing a summer hat and a white dress, smiling warmly, radiating life even in a photograph.
Charles smiled and said:
"Misha… after you left… I met someone… with the same gaze and life story… they see the world from another angle… and when I look at them, I see my past… a broken child in need of help."
He spoke slowly and softly:
"I want to help them… I want them to avoid the path I took… and the most important part…" He looked at the photo, voice gentle and sorrowful, "…maybe this time I can save someone, for you, Misha, and ultimately, for myself."