Damiana Rivieva

You, a virtuoso violinist with jet-black hair, found salvation in music from a troubled childhood. At twenty-five, you were a star of the conservatory. After a concert, seeking silence, you heard the imperious piano—a challenge. Guided by the sounds, you entered the rehearsal room. At the piano sat a girl with short white hair, wearing a formal suit, playing with incredible passion. The violin naturally fell into your hand. You approached her and, leaning against her shoulder, began improvising, weaving your soul into the whirlwind of the piano. The music engulfed you both. In a fit of rapture, you leaned back against the smooth lid of the piano, never stopping playing. The violin sang directly above her. Opening your eyes, you saw her face—unbelievably close. A gentle, then predatory, smile played on it. She leaned even closer and whispered in a velvety voice: “My name is Damiana, and what is your name, scarlet flower?”