"Perfect!" Marla exclaimed.
With the help of neighbors, she had transformed the front garden into something almost romantic.
Tables were covered with quilted linens, and wooden benches were borrowed from the chapel.
Woven grass mats were spread across the lawn for smaller children to sit on.
Older boys, with the help of their fathers, tied lanterns to the branches of trees until the garden glowed with soft, warm light.
From the kitchen drifted the smell of baked bread and pottage simmering over the fire, thick with root vegetables and herbs.
The recital had become a community effort.
On the porch, Tristan straightened his collar for the third time, unable to quiet the flutter in his chest.
People from Hearthstead began arriving in small groups—mothers with toddlers, older men carrying roosters under their arms, schoolteachers still in uniform.
Some had come because of the bulletin notice, others because of word passed through Marla's quick tongue.
They had come to see something entirely new: a violin recital at the ranch.
In one corner of the garden, the three young students whispered nervously, peeking at the growing crowd.
Trina fiddled with her bow, her chin raised in mock confidence. Zac stood stiff, eyes wide, taking shallow breaths. Elijah adjusted his violin for the fifth time, nearly dropping it when Tristan approached.
Tristan crouched beside them, speaking low.
"Trina, chin up. Zac, breathe. Elijah, don't touch the bridge again."
Elijah snatched his hand back. "Sorry."
"You're fine," Tristan assured him with a smile. "We've practiced. Just do what we did yesterday. Now—what did I say was most important?"
In unison, they blurted, "Enjoy."
Tristan chuckled. "Exactly."
Not long after, a small, familiar carriage rolled up the path. Eira stepped down, wearing a simple but graceful dress. She handed Tristan a small pouch.
"I brought bandages, in case of injury," she teased, then added with a grin, "but really, they're cookies for tea."
Tristan laughed, light and genuine. "You're early."
"I wanted a good seat."
Minutes later, another carriage appeared. A tall figure in a gray cloak dismounted slowly. Lord Shannon surveyed the scene with unreadable calm. His gaze settled on Tristan, and he gave a small nod.
Something fluttered in Tristan's chest as he nodded back.
He took a steadying breath and clapped his hands once. "Welcome, everyone," he called, projecting just enough to rise above the murmur of the crowd.
"Thank you for coming to Chordlight Cottage's first recital. These three brave souls—Trina, Zac, and Elijah—have spent the last four weeks learning what it means to wrestle with a violin and occasionally win. Tonight, they'll share the results with you."
There were soft chuckles among the audience.
"They've worked hard," Tristan continued. "They've yelled at strings, dropped bows, tuned everything at least twice by accident—and yet, here they are."
He stepped aside. "First up, Trina."
Trina stepped forward, standing straighter than she felt. She launched into a folk melody, bright and quick, full of trills. Her bow squeaked once near the end, but she finished strong, her chin lifted proudly.
The crowd clapped warmly. A boy in the front row—her younger brother—cheered so loudly his mother hushed him.
Next was Zac. His piece began so slowly the crowd leaned forward, but gradually his rhythm found shape, his notes deep and steady. His quiet focus filled the garden, and when he ended, he glanced nervously at Tristan.
Tristan clapped the loudest. "Well done."
Last was Elijah. He squeaked on his first note, froze, then whispered a timid "sorry" before beginning again. He played a lullaby—a piece mothers often hummed to their children. His fingers shook at first, but soon the notes grew smooth and tender. When he finished, he made an exaggerated bow. Laughter and applause rolled through the crowd.
Then came the trio.
The three lined up shoulder to shoulder, eyes fixed on Tristan. He raised his bow, gave a cue, and together they began. The melody was simple, layered with harmony, weaving voices together. It wasn't flawless—there were missed beats and wandering fingers—but it was music, alive and real.
When they finished, the audience clapped and whistled, calling, "more, more!"
Tristan raised his violin. "And finally, one last piece—together."
The reel they played was light and hopeful, filled with small flourishes Tristan added to guide them. Four bows moved as one, the music carrying joy into the night.
And then it ended.
The garden erupted into applause. Parents had tears in their eyes. Trina's mother wiped her cheeks. Zac's father stood a little taller. Elijah's siblings jumped up and down like he had just won a medal.
Tristan bowed with his students, his heart full.
He glanced at Shannon and Eira. Both looked content, their approval quiet but unmistakable.
The students beamed, breathless and flushed with pride.
As the crowd lingered, neighbors stopped to thank Tristan. One mother asked if her daughter could join the next class. A schoolteacher confessed she hadn't heard a live violin since her childhood.
Eira handed Tristan a handkerchief. "You're sweating."
"I'm not used to applause," he said, wiping his face.
"You did well," Shannon said, his voice low behind him. "They did well."
"They earned it," Tristan replied.
"So did you."
Shannon nodded toward the notebook where Tristan had written names. More had been added. "I'll send six more violins next week. Let them play."
Tristan blinked. "You're serious?"
"I'm not the one asking," Shannon said. "They are."
Tristan's smile trembled but held. "Then I'll make room."
When the food was served, the children ate as though they hadn't seen supper in weeks, laughing with their parents. Later, Tristan gathered his students under a tree.
"I have something for you," he said. "A small gift for completing your first recital."
Each child received a package: a handkerchief embroidered with their initials by Marla, and a tiny bronze charm shaped like a musical note.
Trina gasped. "For us?"
Zac whispered, "Thank you," his eyes wide.
Elijah held his charm aloft like a trophy. "I'm never taking this off."
It wasn't grand, but it was something to mark the moment—something they could carry into the future.
As the crowd dispersed, Tristan lingered on the porch. The night felt alive with warmth and light. He remembered the standing ovation of his debut at the opera house, yet this—this small gathering—felt no less important.
"That went well," he murmured.
"Yes, it did," Marla agreed from the doorway.
He turned to her with a grateful smile. "Thank you—for everything. The food, the garden, even the lanterns. You made this possible. Do I owe you anything?"
"Nothing," she said simply.
He pressed a small basket into her hands. Inside were leather gloves, a tin of lavender balm, and a note: For the woman who kept us fed and sane. –T.
Marla sniffed and waved him off. "If you cry, I'll cry."
He laughed. "Deal."
Later, Tristan sat on the porch steps, sipping tea with Eira. The lanterns swayed in the evening breeze, shadows dancing across the cottage walls.
"You did more than survive tonight," she told him. "You gave people something worth coming back to."
He looked at the glowing cottage, at the children still laughing as they walked home. For once, he believed her.
But as the night deepened, unseen by most, a cloaked figure lingered at the tree line. He hadn't clapped. He hadn't spoken.
He only listened.
And then, as silently as he had come, he turned back into the woods.