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༺༒༻
𝗛𝗮𝗿𝗽𝗲𝗿
I was watching passersby beyond the cafe’s glass wall when someone pulled out the chair across from me, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“You can’t continue like this, Harper. You’re almost thirty,” Brio, my elder brother, said sharply.
I chuckled under my breath. “Relax, kuy—”
“You’re coming with us,” he cut in.
I shook my head, a dry laugh escaping me. “I won’t.”
“Harper!” His eyes widened as if I'd lost my mind. “You’ll never get anywhere here in the Philippines. Everything in this country sucks!”
“Except music.”
His shoulders sagged, eyes softening. I could already see it in his face—the mix of worry and disappointment.
“You’re crazy. . .”
See?
I smirked, sipping from my coffee. Brio shook his head in disbelief.
“You can’t marry music, Harper. It won’t feed you. You’re barely earning from teaching. You’re a woman—with charm and looks. Don’t waste it.”
“And my students love me because of my charm and looks,” I said with a wink.
“I’m not joking.”
“Neither am I.” I took another sip. “Tell Mom and Dad I said hi. And no, I’m still not coming to Alaska.”
“They miss you.”
“I know,” I smiled. “But I am happy here.”
“You and your obsession with music. . .” He sighed, then reached into his pocket and placed something on the table.
My passport.
“I know you left it in my car on purpose.” He grinned. “You naughty child.”
I laughed. “So I won.”
Brio nodded his head slowly. “Yes. Since I can’t do anything anymore to change your mind.”
I smiled, my eyes brimming with tears. He sighed again and hugged me tight before heading out for his flight back to Alaska.
That evening, I wandered through the city, hands in my pockets, the cool air brushing past me. Music filled my ears through my headphones—Bach’s 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦, my favorite.
I stopped by a wooden bench between two lamp posts and sat. The music carried me. My eyes fluttered closed.
But something didn’t feel right.
I reached for my pocket—my phone had died.
Yet the music kept playing.
I pulled out my earphones, stunned to still hear the violin's haunting melody in the open air. My heart skipped. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘦. . .
I stood and scanned the street. Across the pedestrian lane, a crowd had gathered.
As I crossed, the melody grew clearer, raw and beautiful. I gently weaved through the people until I found the source.
There she was—bow in hand body swaying, soul pouring into every note.
I froze.
How could someone play such a sorrowful piece and make it sound alive?
I watched her in awe, unable to look away. She was radiant, almost glowing in the lamplight. Around her, the crowd slowly thinned, but I stayed.
When she played her final note, she bowed. Then I clapped softly.
“Thank you,” she said, brushing hair from her eyes. “This is a lot,” she added, glancing at the money in her case.
“You did great,” I said.
She flinched, startled. Her hand slipped, spilling the coins from the violin case. We both scrambled to pick them up.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, handing her the ones I had caught.
“No worries,” she smiled, locking eyes with me. And in that moment—her eyes squinting, cheeks lifting—I felt something stir inside me.
“Thanks and goodbye, madam,” she said.
“Wait!” I called out. “What’s your name?”
Her brows rose, her smile playful. “Would it be rude if I said it’s secret?”
I chuckled. “No, not at all. Then. . .” I paused, trying to think of something. “Would you have coffee with me sometime?”
“Sorry?” Her brows creased in confusion. After a while she grinned. “Maybe ask me next time.”
And then she was gone.
I watched her disappear down the sidewalk, wondering if I’d ever see her again. As I turned to leave, something shiny caught my eye—a five-peso coin at my feet.
“It must be hers,” I muttered, pocketing it.
Maybe. . . just maybe. . . we’ll meet again.
༺༒༻
𝗖𝗹𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗼𝗻
Tonight’s my last set.
Playing music on the street has always been more than a hobby. It gave me joy, peace—and paid for my meals.
I played with everything I had, pouring myself into each note. When the final sound faded, the street applauded. I bowed gratefully.
The violin case, once empty, now brimmed with coins, bills, even a chocolate bar and a small bouquet of flowers. I smiled.
As I reached for it, a familiar voice spoke.
“You’re done for tonight?”
I looked up, grinning. “You’re late.”
She handed me a cup of coffee. “For you, Clara.”
“It’s Clarion, Harper,” I teased.
She shrugged, already packing my things.
“Let’s go?” she asked, offering her hand.
“Where to?” I took her hand and watched as she intertwined our fingers.
“Somewhere close,” she said with a laugh.
We sat together on a bench nearby, warm drinks in hand.
“This is a calming night,” she said, eyes on the stars.
“It is.” I paused. “How long has it been?”
“One month and five days,” she said, then took my hand and kissed it gently. “Thank you for letting me in.”
“If I hadn’t. . . would you have left?”
She smiled. “Alaska is beautiful, but the Philippines has the best music—and the most amazing violinist.”
I smiled softly while keeping our eye contact.
After that night, our first encounter, she returned every evening—never missing a single performance. She never gave up on knowing my name, or on asking me to coffee. Until the night I finally said yes.
She told me about her life—her favorite songs, her job, her stubborn refusal to leave. She was honest, persistent, and kind.
She courted me for three months.
I fell—slowly, deeply, and without regret.
I gaze at her now, years later, still memorizing her face.
A small hand tugged my sleeve.
“Mommy!”
Jona, our daughter, threw herself into my arms. I smiled and pulled her face close.
I turned to Harper—but she was gone.
Until I heard Jona yell, “Momma!”
She entered the room, lifted our daughter into her arms, and met my gaze. Same eyes. Same smile.
“How’s Jona?” she asked.
“She’s excellent,” I said, tickling her until she laughed.
Harper beamed. “How long has it been?”
“Five years and five days, my love.”
Still the same woman. Still the same music.
Still. . . 𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴.
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