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The cello hung limply in her arms as Madeline climbed the stairs to her apartment, quiet in thought and emotion. Her whole life she had been so careful with her cello, cleaning it, tuning it, keeping it in the best condition she possibly could. Even now she cradled it close to her as she maneuvered the tight halls, as though still frightened it would be damaged, even though that boat had long since sailed. The thought forced her to fight back another wave of tears as grief and anger washed over her once more.
Keep it together, she thought, just until you can make it inside.
She passed by Miles’ apartment as she went, glancing at the door. Obviously Miles wasn’t home—she knew his work schedule, she’d tried to call him at work, he was clearly there—yet there was a faint sound coming from within. A show or movie of some kind, playing quietly.
There usually was. She’d noticed the sound of talking from a muffled tv several times when passing his apartment. Sometimes she heard it from the air vent in her room. Most often it played when she knew Miles wasn’t home.
It was certainly odd, and likely did his electric bill no favors, but Miles was an odd person. She figured it was some kind of security measure, to make people think someone was inside. He was paranoid like that sometimes.
Madeline made her way up the rest of the stairs, carefully resting the cello against the wall, wincing as it crumpled further to the ground.
Keep it together. She fiddled with her keys, unlocking the door.
Keep it together. She picked up the cello case, the neck hanging sadly off of her arm.
Keep it together. She nudged her way inside, closing the door behind her with her foot.
Keep it together. She turned the lock, moving further into the room. She set the cello, still in its case, on the stand where it usually rested. When she let go, the neck of it slumped to the side, lifeless.
It was lifeless. Dead. Gone.
When the tears came this time, she didn’t fight them. She let out a sob of anguish, gently touching the side of the cello once more, before she crumpled down beside it, as though attempting to mimic its formless shape.
She cried. Cried for the years of care she’d put into the cello, cried for her place in the orchestra—Bill’s words had haunted her, both his seeming lack of her care for her pain, as well as the truth of them, who would play in her place?—cried for her carelessness that had caused it to break. Cried in anger at the people in the elevator, at the elevator itself, at Miles being too busy to pick up the phone, at herself; at everything. She felt stupid for crying, and that just made her more miserable.
She likely would have remained like that for much longer, had a faint sound not broken her spiral. She blinked in confusion, eyes still awash with tears. It was a familiar sound, though she couldn’t quite place it. Narrowing her eyes, she focused, listening to the muffled noise. It sounded high pitched, electronic…
Madeline sat up, cello momentarily forgotten as the sound of the instrument played again. A short verse, hardly anything at all, but she recognized it nonetheless. She hurried to the partially closed air vent, opening it fully. The sound grew louder with it.
“Hello?” She called. The music went quiet, though a faint sort of buzzing remained, as though expectant, “Miles, is that you?” She asked, “I thought you were at work…”
“…not Moles,” a voice replied quietly. She assumed it meant to say “Miles,” maybe the vent distorted its words somehow. Regardless, it indeed was not Miles’ voice, but it wasn’t entirely unfamiliar either. Madeline thought for a moment, trying to place where she knew it from. The voice was silent, though a few more notes of music strained up through the vents.
“Could you say something again, please?” she asked. There was a stunned sort of silence, even the music had cut completely. Then the voice spoke, “what…would you like me to say?”
It clicked. She’d heard the voice in Miles' apartment before, both when he was there and when he wasn’t. She’d just assumed it was the tv, but tvs didn’t typically respond to you. Or know your boyfriend’s name, for that matter.
“Are you one of Miles’ friends?”
Another beat of silence, “I suppose you could say that. I don’t know that he would call me a friend though.”
That was…somewhat concerning, “well, who are you then?” She asked cautiously.
Now the voice didn’t answer at all, out of secrecy or not knowing how to respond, Madeline wasn’t sure, but she didn’t like it either way, “hello?” She called again, “are you still there?”
“Yes,” it replied quickly, “yes I am. I just…don’t know how to answer your question, that’s all.”
“You won’t tell me who you are?”
“Not won’t. Can’t. I don’t have a good answer.”
How odd. “Do you have a name, at least?”
“Oh, I do!” The voice chirped. It sounded proud, “my name’s Edgar.”
Edgar, Madeline was sure Miles had never mentioned an Edgar before. That plus this guy’s dodgy behavior put her on edge.
Well, Madeline was nothing if not forward, “you’re not here to rob Miles or hurt anyone, are you? You’re here with his permission?” She asked
“No, no, no I wouldn’t hurt anyone, I promise! Miles brought me here, I’m sort of his…roommate?”
“He never mentioned a roommate,” she replied. Though that did perhaps answer why Miles tended to keep her out of his apartment.
“Of course he didn’t,” Edgar said, voice flat. He sounded annoyed, almost disappointed.
It sounded genuine, and Edgar being a roommate made sense enough—though it still didn’t explain why Miles hadn’t mentioned anything about him.
“Well then, I’m sorry he didn’t introduce us sooner,” she said, stomping out her last bit of trepidation, “I’m Madeline.”
“I know,” replied Edgar quietly, “it’s nice to meet you.”
He sounded awfully nervous. Madeline smiled to herself, “it’s nice meeting you too.”
A happy sort of beeping sound played then, like the instrument she’d heard before. Not any particular song, just a trill of cheerful, incongruent noises.
A realization came to her then, and it was a shock that she hadn’t put it together sooner.
“Oh, it’s you! You play the music!” She said suddenly.
The sounds paused only for a moment, as though registering her words, before kicking up again, higher, happier, and somehow even more cacophonous.
“Yeah! I do!” Edgar said, voice full of glee and pride and relief, barely audible over the chorus of music. It stuttered out then, quieting to a buzz, “I mean—I do. Yep. Yes. That’s—that’s me.”
Madeline laughed, half disbelief, half endearment for the voice in the vents. The mystery music maker. Her musical duelist…It wasn’t Miles.
The thought was sobering, and her smile faded. Miles didn’t play the music. She supposed that he had been rather confused about it when she’d initially brought it up, he’d outright denied it a few times. but he’d leaned into it later on, accepted her praise, confirmed it was him. He’d played a couple songs that he’d made for her.
A glance at the vent.
Or that someone else had made.
Before she could delve into the thought too much further, Edgar spoke, “would you…like to play music together? Again?”
“Oh, I would love to, but my cello…” she trailed off, sparing a glance back at the forlorn instrument. She had to quickly turn away at the sight of it, grief rising within her chest once more, “…it’s broken.”
The faint trilling music, which had picked up again somewhat, screeched to a halt, “broken?”
“Yes. I…I broke it.”
“How?”
She sniffled, rubbing at her face, “an elevator door closed on it.”
“An…” there was a pause, faint beeping, what sounded like flipping quickly through television channels, “elevator closed on it? Did it…did it eat it?”
That surprised a small laugh out of her, “that’s one way to put it, yeah.” She glanced at the cello once more, before laying down on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, “it’s completely unplayable now.”
“Oh, I’m—I’m sorry. It had very pretty music.”
“Yes it did,” she replied sadly, “I’ve played that cello since I was twelve. I don’t know what I’ll do without it.”
“Well, maybe you could fix it, make it playable again? Or would you be able to get a new one?”
Madeline knew enough about cellos to know that a break like that was near unrepairable, not without a lot of money, at least. And a replacement…
“I don’t think I’d be able to fix it, and a replacement just wouldn’t be the same. This cello is—was—special to me.”
Edgar made a humming sound, whether in agreement, pity, sympathy, or thought, she wasn’t sure. “So what will you do then?” He asked.
Madeline closed her eyes, pressing her hands to her face, “I don’t know,” she mumbled, “feel sorry for myself, I guess. See if Miles has any ideas.”
Edgar muttered something she couldn’t quite catch. “I hope you can fix it,” he said, louder, “Or get one that sounds the same. It makes very beautiful music and you—you’re very good at playing it. Whatever you decide to do, I hope you keep playing. I’d like to make music with you again sometime.”
She smiled, faint and watery with unshed tears, “thanks, Edgar. I’d like to play with you again someday too.”
A happy hum floated up through the vent, and she couldn’t help but smile wider at it. She liked the sound.
“You know, I haven’t heard you really play that instrument, whatever it is, since that first time,” she said, “could you play something for me?”
What sounded like the musical equivalent of pure joy erupted loud and sharp for a moment before cutting off disjointedly, as though it had to be forcefully stamped out. Edgar cleared his throat, “of course! You got it! Any requests?”
“Whatever you’d like,” Madeline replied.
“Hmm, okay.”
A moment of silence, before the familiar sound of the odd instrument began to play, soft at first, growing louder and more confident as it went. It was a slower tune than their musical duel was, less sharp beeps, more prolonged notes. A mix between sad and happy. Bittersweet. Madeline closed her eyes, and listened, letting herself forget her worries and grief and questions, if only for a moment.
When the song ended, it was on a happier, lighter note than where it had started. Madeline felt much the same way.
“That was beautiful, Edgar,” she said, “I needed that. Thank you.”
Light, fumbled beeping noises played. If she had to pin an emotion to the sound, she’d call it embarrassed. “You’re welcome,” he replied quietly, “thank you for listening to me.”
Madeline smiled to herself. She felt better. Certainly she was still sad about her cello, still angry at herself and the elevator and Miles for not picking up the phone (and now mad at Miles for a couple other things too), but she felt lighter, if only slightly. She also now felt very, very tired. Breaking one’s prized possession, sobbing on the floor, and then making a new friend really took the energy out of you, it seemed.
“I think I’m going to go take a nap. I’m exhausted,” she said after a moment of comfortable silence, slowly picking herself up off the floor.
“Oh, alright,” Edgar said, disappointment evident in his voice, “will I talk to you again?”
“I would hope so,” she replied, “maybe next time we can even talk face to face.”
“I don’t think…I mean. Maybe but I don’t know if…” he trailed off, trying to find the words. “I would like that,” he said finally, “I don’t know if that would work but if we could…I would like that.”
“Why wouldn’t it work?”
He didn’t reply. The quiet sound of a tv show or movie playing resumed, and Madeline took that to mean the conversation was over. She didn’t find the abrupt ending necessarily rude, but it was certainly strange. She’d have to ask him about it next time.
She yawned then, glancing at the clock. She had at least three hours before Miles got back from work. Plenty of time to nap and shower before their date. She’d tell him about her cello, she’d ask for advice, and she would definitely ask him about Edgar.
And then maybe when they got back, if Edgar was still there, she would ask to meet him in person, to finally see who the mystery musician was.
It sounded like Edgar would like that. Madeline would too.