A donation without an instrument
When June opened the case delivered to the Wren Street music room, she found only the impression of a violin in green velvet. The parcel's note was brief: for the Saturday players, from Elsie. There was no return address. June knew three Elsies, none of whom had mentioned an instrument, and the music room had no money for an expensive mistake.
Her first thought was that a violin had been removed in transit. The brass catches looked worn but undamaged. Beneath the handle, a square of faded tape carried the remains of a blue star. June photographed the case and asked the volunteers whether anyone recognized it. Most remembered a similar case from childhood. Only Arun, who tuned the room's donated piano, recognized the star.
It had belonged to his older sister, he said. She had marked everything with blue stars during the summer their family moved away. Her name was Mira, not Elsie, and she had sold the violin years earlier to pay for a train ticket. Arun's voice became careful when he said he had not heard her play since.
June reached into the compartment where a bow would normally rest. A corner of the velvet lifted beneath her finger, revealing an uneven line of green stitches. The stitches looked homemade. Arun leaned closer and recognized something more personal than the star: his sister had always repaired things with the largest needle she could find.