The girl was invisible to most.
The others shuffled past, hands thrust deep into their pockets to keep them warm from the chill winter air. Collars were turned up, hats pulled down low, thin wires running from reddened ears only to disappear into interior pockets. No one looked in her direction, or if they did, they only saw the dull shine of the rosewood instrument tucked under her chin or the white cloud of rosin that glittered in the air like minuscule snowflakes. The blur of her rapidly-numbing fingers over the strings and the way the wind fiddled with the ends of her burgundy scarf were lost to the masses as she stood on the street corner, just a small figure amongst millions.
A modest collection of coins glinted from her case as she turned the page, clipping it in place to keep the wind from playing with it. She checked her watch, smiling at the promise of a steaming hot cocoa in just a few minutes. With renewed enthusiasm, she started "Let it Snow." Despite the black and white music on her stand, her eyes wandered through the crowd, gaze slipping across the man wrapping an arm around his shivering wife, lingering on the boy with hair almost as fiery as the red lights on her Christmas tree, and skipping over the mother wearily pushing a stroller laden with bundled-up twins, happily sucking on matching candy canes.
The slate-grey sky seemed to press down even more heavily as she finished, as if snow, waiting to be released, was weighing down the clouds, pushing them closer to the ground. A few extra dollar bills sat in her case than when she had started, and she closed her book and pulled to the front another one, not a Christmas volume, but its simple cover yellowed due to excessive use.
She opened to the first page, pinning it down with care. Suite No. 1 in G major - Prelude, read the heading. With a deep breath, she placed her bow on the string and let the instrument sing. Her cold fingers set and reset, clumsy from the cold wind, tucking in close for a brief second as if they were trying to gain warmth from each other before she needed to move them away again. Dangerous though it was on the crowded street, she closed her eyes, swaying to the beat she set for herself.
This song wasn't for money, nor for the pleasure of the thousands of oblivious souls who walked past her every second. No, they walked to the rhythm of crosswalks and streetlights, white figures and red hands telling them when to stop and go; their feet were guided by the honks of cars and the tinny notes coming from the earbuds deafening them to the outside world. No, this song wasn't for them, those that never listened. This song was for her.
In those moments, the others might well have not even existed. Pulling every ounce of emotion from her instrument, the notes swirled around her in the glowing space behind her fluttering eyelids. She climbed from the bottom range of the instrument to the top, pausing as if on the crest of a hill, then let her fingers cascade downward in an ever-faster accelerando, only to sweep back upwards and delay for another imperceptible second, like her instrument was gasping for breath after singing a thrilling declaration, the words falling sweet from her silver strings like a love song. She dropped down to nothing, almost making no sound at all, then began to build up towards the climax, bow glancing over the strings in a brilliant ricochet, faster and faster—
He smashed into her from behind, her eyes snapping open and the bow flying off the string with an ugly screech. She staggered forward, instinctively pulling her instrument into her body to protect it, knocking over her stand and sending the music flying into the street. "Oh no, oh no, oh no," she cried, leaning down awkwardly to pick up the soaked papers from the gutter, hands already full with her instrument, too protective to set it down, even for a second.
She let out a noise of despair as she pulled her beloved Cello Suites off the cold pavement, a water stain having saturated the bottom half of the book, the old pages already starting to curl. She turned back to the sidewalk to see the man who had knocked into her setting her stand back upright with a guilty expression on his face. Adjusting the white kippah that was sitting askew on his curly hair, he met her eyes, then immediately dropped them, muttering apologies. "Ma'am, I'm so sorry, I just heard you playing that song and I wanted to hear it better but I stumbled and then I bumped into you—"
Staring at him, hands clutched in front of him like a naughty child caught with a hand in the cookie jar, babbling as if he couldn't seem to stop, her heart melted a little.
"Sir," she said. He continued for another second, as if he hadn't heard her, and she tried again, a little more forcefully. "Sir."
His head snapped up, but broke her gaze again. "I'm sorry," he said once more.
"It's alright." A little smile was drawn from her, despite herself. "Paper can dry. Neither you, nor I, nor she—" she gestured towards her instrument— "are hurt, so there's no need to apologize."
He opened his mouth again, then promptly shut it. After a moment, she hesitantly nodded her head, checking her watch and turning to her case. "I was about to pack her away, anyway."
"Wait."
She turned around.
"The song you were playing on your violin—"
"Viola," she promptly corrected him, with the long-suffering air of someone who has had to endure such a misconception for many years.
"Viola?"
"The sister instrument of the violin. She has different strings—pitched a fifth lower—and is slightly larger and wider."
"Oh."
"Don't worry about it. Nobody ever knows the difference." A tinge of hurt appeared in her voice, as if her invisibility continued to surround her, even after she had been spotted.
"Anyway, the song you were playing on your viola... what's it called?"
"It's the first Bach unaccompanied cello suite, transposed for viola."
He nodded to himself silently as she tucked her music away into her grey bag, as if any of the words she had said to him had any meaning. Sweeping up the money in her case, she deposited it into an zippered pocket, where she would count it at the coffee shop just across the street. She shivered, suddenly ready to be inside, where she could feel her fingers again, and knelt to put her viola away.
"Could you—could you perhaps play it, one more time?"
She froze, numb fingers trembling. He pursed his lips apprehensively, running his tongue over the chapped skin. Behind his head, grey skyscrapers vanished into the grey sky. "N- never mind," he stammered after a moment of stunned silence. "You've already put your music away, and your stand, and—"
"No," she said slowly, rising from the drab pavement. "It's alright. I have it memorized."
"Thank you," he breathed, so relieved. "You see, it was my mother's favorite song, and after she passed, I've never managed to find it and I had no idea of what it was or how I could listen to again, and then I was walking down the street and suddenly I heard it and then I saw you, and you seemed to be in another world and I just had to talk to you, but then I tripped and- and- and—" she raised her eyebrows as he stuttered to a halt. "I'll let you play it now," he finished lamely.
Despite herself, a small smile touched her lips, and she lifted her viola to her chin, taking a moment to collect herself before she began to play. Just as before, her eyes flitted shut, but this time she was acutely aware of the presence of the man next to her, burning into her consciousness. She drew her bow across the strings, and the sound spiraled upwards, fighting its way through car horns and beeping lights, pushing past grey skyscrapers to finally sink into the heavy clouds. Heat surged through her arms, dripping down into her fingers as they flew over the strings faster and faster as she crescendoed, pulling more from her instrument than she had ever managed. She reached the climax of the music, holding her breath as her bow wavered for a long, eternal moment over what seemed like a bottomless precipice, and it was then she felt the first flake of snow descend on her nose.
She let her bow fall back onto the strings, chords resounding all around them until she and her viola sang the last, sweet notes. Triumphantly, regretfully, wistfully—she released the final note, bow lifting into the air like a feather floating in the air, utterly weightless as the ghosts of the notes she had just played echoed in their memories, sailing upward to join their brothers and sisters in the clouds.
She opened her eyes to see snowflakes whirling all around her. Unable to resist, she let forth a breathless, giddy laugh, surprised to find her lungs empty after her performance. She looked over at him, snow already melting in hair as dark as his eyes, and despite the tear rolling down his cheek, he managed to choke out a laugh as well. She laughed again, and so did he, pouring out their emotions like the heavens releasing the snow. As the first flakes began to stick, white slowly overtaking the stark slate of sidewalks and roads, they cried together, the kind of crying where you can't tell if you're shaking because of laughter or of sobs.
"Happy Hannukah," she told him, a joyous grin spreading across her face.
"How did you—oh," he realized, gingerly touching the white cloth resting on his head. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a twenty dollar bill, pressing it into her palm. "Thank you so much. I haven't heard that song in ten years, and I... I finally know its name. Merry Christmas."
"No, no." She tried to give him back the money, but he wouldn't take it. "It was really nothing, sir. Nothing at all. Use it to buy your mother a bouquet, or your wife a rose. Please, sir. Take it and use it to give someone else happiness for their holiday. Please."
He swallowed, blinking away the snow that had caught in his eyelashes. After a long moment, he nodded, taking in and releasing a deep breath, tucking the bill back into his pocket. "I will. Thank you." He licked his dry lips again. "This means more to me than you can ever know. Merry Christmas, Miss Viola Player. Merry Christmas."
He turned to walk away, staring up into the white kaleidoscope descending from above. "Wait!" she called after him. "What was your mother's name?"
"Rena," he whispered, sound almost muffled by the fresh snowfall rapidly overwhelming the ground. "Her name was Rena."
A sudden wave of emotion rose in her chest, and she clutched her viola close to her, as if it was someone she loved. "Rena," she breathed to it, mouth brushing against the scroll. "Rena."
She looked up, caught with the need to say something more to him, but he was gone, lost amongst the trench coats and scarves, not even a little white kippah to betray his location. So she stood alone on the street corner, the viola and the violist, white snow surrounding her ankles and the lingering notes of a song and a stranger ringing in her ears.