If eyes are the window to the soul, then why are all pupils shadows?

One cannot see into a dark room, and I could not see past the silhouette. The path ahead is and was enveloped in choking fog. The failure of my breath pounced on me.

The adult demanded a name.

Like fae, once you give your name, your fate is sealed.

Auditions. The doorknob jiggled.

The sheet music began to tremble, the perfectly straight lines succumbing to the earthquake of my hands. One, two, three, four, inhale.

The door swung silently like death.

Dark fog, a vignette, lingered in the corners of my eyes. There was not enough air. The music notes glared back at me; the quarter rests mocking. They demanded patience, to wait knowingly before the bear trap snapped.

A girl bolted out of the small room. Her eyes were red as she struggled to outrun the jaws of humility.

One, two, three, four, inhale. I filled my stomach and tensed. Tension is a killer to art; it means that you are not living and breathing music; it means uncertainty of fate.

Mortality always lingers behind musicians. To fall one beat short is to be out of place in the worst ways. To miss a note is to shoot an arrow and hit a passerby.

An adult stepped out of the room.

Auditions draw people in, moths to a brilliant flame, and the judges laugh when wings crisp and burn. To sing, to breathe art, is to offer the most significant vulnerability and have it persecuted by all listeners.

The adult invited me in, and I could not say no.