The crowd tittered. A few phones came out to record the “cute” moment. Mia’s foster mother, standing behind her, stiffened, but Mia only looked up calmly. Her eyes were clear, unafraid.
“Okay,” she said softly.
Victor straightened, chuckling. “Alright then. Let’s hear it. Make it quick—I’ve got people to impress.”
The emcee hesitated but motioned for the stage lights to dim. A simple stool was brought for the violin stand. Mia wheeled herself forward slowly, the wheels whispering across the polished floor. No one helped her; she didn’t ask.
She opened the battered case. The violin inside was old, cracked in places, borrowed from the orphanage music teacher who believed in her. She lifted it with steady hands, tucked it under her chin, and drew the bow across the strings once—testing, listening.
Then she began.