The violin lay dormant in its velvet case, gathering dust in the corner of Yuki’s room. She would catch glimpses of it during her morning routine - a flash of polished wood in her peripheral vision that filled her with a familiar unease.

“Have you practiced today?” her mother would ask each evening, voice carefully neutral. The same question, day after day, like a metronome marking time.

“Soon,” Yuki would reply, the word hollow on her tongue. They both knew it was a lie.

The instrument had been her grandfather’s final gift before he passed. A master violinist himself, he had selected it specially for her small hands. “Music lives in your blood,” he had told her, eyes crinkling with certainty. “You just need to let it out.”

But three years had passed, and the violin remained silent. Yuki threw herself into her studies instead, excelling in mathematics and sciences - subjects with clear rules and definitive answers. Music was too nebulous, too demanding of vulnerability.

One autumn evening, as rain tapped gently against her window, Yuki found herself drawn to the case. Her fingers traced the latches, muscle memory from countless childhood lessons guiding her movements.

“I didn’t mean to pressure you,” her mother’s voice came softly from the doorway. Yuki hadn’t heard her approach.

“You never said anything.”

“I didn’t have to. Your grandfather’s violin says enough.”

Yuki’s hand stilled on the case. “I’m not him. I can’t be what he wanted.”

Her mother crossed the room, settling beside her on the bed. “He never wanted you to be him. He wanted you to find your own music.”

“What if there isn’t any? What if I’m just…empty inside?”

“Nobody’s empty, Yuki. Sometimes the music is just very quiet. It takes patience to hear it.”

That night, after her mother had gone to bed, Yuki opened the case. The violin’s surface had dulled slightly, but its form remained elegant, waiting. She lifted it carefully, positioning it under her chin as she had been taught.

The first notes were hesitant, scratchy with disuse. But as her bow moved across the strings, something stirred in her chest - not the technical perfection her grandfather had achieved, but something uniquely her own. A halting melody emerged, imperfect but honest.

When she finally lowered the violin, Yuki noticed her cheeks were wet. On her desk, a small note from her mother caught her eye: “Your grandfather once told me that the most beautiful music comes from those who aren’t afraid to play wrong notes.”

The next evening, when her mother asked her usual question, Yuki’s answer was different.

“Yes,” she said. “I practiced today.”

And for the first time in years, both the word and the silence that followed felt right.