He walked toward the small white house at the edge of the valley. In the garden, he saw her. His mother, her hair now the color of the cherry blossoms falling around her, was humming a tune while tending to the basil. It was the same wordless melody she had used to lull him to sleep when the winter winds howled against their shutters.

Ionel didn’t call out. Instead, he signaled to his friends—the —who had followed him quietly up the path. With a single nod, the accordion breathed a long, nostalgic sigh, and the violins began to weep and dance all at once.

The village of Palanca was still tucked under a blanket of morning mist when Ionel stepped onto the porch. In his hands, he held an old, weathered violin case—the kind that smelled of rosin and decades of memories.