That day, Fiona went to the music store for her usual shift. Despite her damaged voice, her love for music hadn't faded. She had studied opera in the U.S. and found ways to stay close to music, even if it wasn't the same as before. The music store suited her perfectly—she knew her instruments, and the boss paid well—so she stayed.
Blair, preparing for a performance in North America next month, had run into a problem with her cello and decided to visit the store to pick out a new one.
The moment she stepped inside, a sharp, grating voice made her freeze mid-step, like fingernails scraping glass.
"Hello, welcome," came the words.
Blair turned and immediately recognized the thin, almost frail woman standing behind the counter—Fiona.
"Uh… hello," Blair forced a polite reply, trying to keep her mouth from twitching in disgust. She couldn't believe that such a small-looking woman could produce such a harsh, unpleasant voice.
