Laura does not remember her childhood in seasons.
She remembers it in schedules.
6:00 — wake.6:30 — scales.7:15 — breakfast.School.4:00 — practice.8:00 — review.9:00 — theory.
Precision was not encouraged.
It was assumed.
She does not remember being asked what she liked.
She remembers being corrected.
Fingers curved.Wrist lifted.Tempo exact.
If she missed a note, the correction was immediate.
Not loud.
Not hysterical.
Efficient.
Madame Virelle did not raise her voice.
She adjusted.
She always called it that.
"Adjustment."
The whip was thin.
Elegant.
Kept in the left drawer beneath the metronome.
It was never used in anger.
That was important.
It was used in instruction.
"Discipline is necessary."
Laura believed her.
Their family lineage was documented.
Three generations of pianists.
Competitions framed along the hallway.
Photographs in gold trim.
Legacy was not discussed.
It was inherited.
Laura did not ask if she wanted it.
The question did not exist.
Academic performance mirrored musical expectation.
Perfection in one reflected discipline in the other.
Madame Virelle would review exam scores with the same neutrality as sheet music.
"Second highest?"
A pause.
"We aim for first."
Laura learned early:
There is no catastrophe in failure.
There is recalibration.
But recalibration came with consequence.
And consequence hurt.
She does not remember crying often.
Crying extended lessons.
Extended lessons meant fatigue.
Fatigue meant mistakes.
Mistakes meant correction.
Efficiency required silence.
So she optimized.
She became:
Quiet.
Precise.
Predictable.
There was a girl once.
Before structure.
Laura knows this logically.
There must have been.
But memory offers no evidence.
Only discipline.
Only posture.
Only performance.
The first time she played in competition, she was nine.
She won.
Madame Virelle nodded once.
"Acceptable."
Laura remembers that word clearly.
Acceptable felt like safety.
She chased that feeling for years.
-
Back in the present, Laura sits at her desk.
Laptop closed.
Hands resting on the wood.
Trauma response.
The phrase still sits in her mind.
She does not feel abused.
Abuse is chaotic.
Her childhood was organized.
She does not feel broken.
Broken is loud.
She functions.
Exceptionally.
But when she played that wrong note—
Her body reacted as if she had failed in front of judges again.
As if consequence was imminent.
As if pain followed error.
Her pulse had not spiked in years.
Not like that.
Laura exhales slowly.
She does not label it.
She does not dramatize it.
She simply acknowledges a fact:
Her nervous system learned something long ago.
And it has never unlearned it.
-
She opens the metronome app on her phone.
Sets it to 60 bpm.
Lets it tick in the quiet room.
Steady.
Reliable.
Unwavering.
She stares at it longer than necessary.
And for the first time—
The sound does not comfort her.