Closed PV Playing Chords

₊⁺⋆ Date: — | Number of words: 887| Dialogue: #aa5713 ⋆⁺₊

Stelle walked through the hallways of the fourth floor with her violin in hand, enjoying the tranquility that Hogwarts could offer at times like this. Although most of the students were busy with classwork or their own adventures, Stelle had decided to spend some time practicing in the rehearsal room. For her, playing the violin was more than just a hobby; it was a way to connect with her origins, a refuge that helped her channel all those emotions that she sometimes didn't know how to express in words. The strings of his violin were like little extensions of his soul, and every note she played had a purpose, a story. Since she was a child, her grandmother had taught her the magic of music, assuring her that a true artist not only played for others but also to find peace in his own heart. Although she was very demanding of her, a part of Stelle knew that she only played so as not to disappoint her.Saying it made her relax was just a gentle lie to try to enjoy it. As she approached the large oak door of the rehearsal room, Stelle couldn't help but feel a slight excitement bubbling in her chest. It was a special space for her, one where the walls seemed to hear and understand everything she felt. She often imagined that the portraits adorning the walls silently applauded his efforts, as if they were invisible but kind music critics. Upon arriving, she paused for a moment, admiring the intricate details of the door as his fingers ran between them. What piece would you play today? I didn't really know; she just wanted to do it. Inspired, she carefully pushed the door open, ready to immerse herself in her own world of strings and harmonies, not knowing that she would have company that afternoon.

Stelle walked through the hallways of the fourth floor with her violin in hand, enjoying the tranquility that Hogwarts could offer at times like this. Although most of the students were busy with classwork or their own adventures, Stelle had decided to spend some time practicing in the rehearsal room. For her, playing the violin was more than just a hobby; it was a way to connect with her origins, a refuge that helped her channel all those emotions that she sometimes didn't know how to express in words. The strings of his violin were like little extensions of his soul, and every note she played had a purpose, a story. Since she was a child, her grandmother had taught her the magic of music, assuring her that a true artist not only played for others but also to find peace in his own heart. Although she was very demanding of her, a part of Stelle knew that she only played so as not to disappoint her.Saying it made her relax was just a gentle lie to try to enjoy it. As she approached the large oak door of the rehearsal room, Stelle couldn't help but feel a slight excitement bubbling in her chest. It was a special space for her, one where the walls seemed to hear and understand everything she felt. She often imagined that the portraits adorning the walls silently applauded his efforts, as if they were invisible but kind music critics. Upon arriving, she paused for a moment, admiring the intricate details of the door as his fingers ran between them. What piece would you play today? I didn't really know; she just wanted to do it. Inspired, she carefully pushed the door open, ready to immerse herself in her own world of strings and harmonies, not knowing that she would have company that afternoon.

As she opened the large door to the rehearsal room, his heart pounded with anticipation. The acoustics of the place always allowed her to fully immerse herself in his music, each note resonating like a spell in the air. However, as soon as she crossed the threshold, she stopped abruptly when she heard a familiar melody. She tilted her head, intrigued, as her eyes scanned the room. A girl was sitting in the center, playing the guitar with a passion that immediately captured Stelle's attention. The melody of the Concierto de Aranjuez filled the room, and although it seemed out of place in a magic school, there was something deeply moving in the way the music flowed from the strings. His father played that piece during his mornings when he worked. Stelle decided not to interrupt, standing silently by the door as she listened, allowing herself to be transported by that melody full of nostalgia. That girl played with emotion, enjoying what she was doing. She felt a pang of jealousy; she would never achieve that level of connection even if she wanted it. As she moved to be able to locate herself in some other space in the room, she heard a soft moan and turned around, curious. But, distracted as she was, she collided with a couple of chairs, generating an unpleasant squeak between them. Stelle, brake turning; the girl had stopped playing; had she lost her concentration? I look at the pick and then at his finger, so I take a deep breath and speak softly. —Excuse me... are you okay?—. She asked softly, approaching the guitarist.

@Denise Garcia