The vivid colours of this woman’s neighbourhood shone bright in the midday sun, in high contrast to the dark mood that had long settled in her heart.

She was walking briskly, head down, with the common air of someone in a rush. Her elegant heels clicked on the smooth concrete beneath, melding into the layers of sounds brushing past her— agitated voices, cars, footsteps, hollow ringtones. Hugging the buildings’ walls, she fought hard to keep her tears at bay, knowing full well the consequences that would ensue the act of crying in public. Allowing herself a brief look ahead, she saw that her destination was approaching. Ahead, a shining glass façade beckoned to her. As she walked closer to it the shelves of various cosmetics and medicines threw a shadow of doubt into her determination. Was this the right place? She cautiously walked in, and the alert stare of the woman at the counter felt right: she had arrived.

Calmly stepping up to the counter, she dared to speak. “I’m here for a session,” she murmured, eyes shining with the sudden adrenaline of this illegal act. The cashier studied her a moment, and reached for her hand. Her silent nod spoke louder than words: you’re safe here. The woman was led into the back room of the pharmacy, staring in wonder as the cashier reached out and slid the shelf in front of them to the side without a sound. Behind it, a dimly lit staircase. With another nod, the cashier pointed forward.

“You walk down,” she started. “You walk until the lights get brighter, and you turn left.”

The woman started forward as the cashier slid the shelf back and blocked off all natural light. With a shaky breath, she followed the cashier’s instructions as the candlelight turned electric, walking past a number of corridors and rooms. Then finally, turning left to face a door, she pushed it open. The room was lit like the staircase, dim and mysterious. A single silhouette of a pair of plush armchairs and a man sat in the one closest presented itself to her.

With slow, deliberate steps, she went to sit on the remaining chair, and turned to face the revered man. He was studying her, his green eyes sparkling with depth, compassion and empathy,  Pools of kindness drawing her in. He gave her a wave, indicating he wanted her to speak. It took her a second to understand the request, and she nervously rushed to comply.

“They took my younger brother two days ago. He was bipolar. I can’t get over it,” the words came flooding out, overriding the years of conditioned instinct telling her to stop talking, to hold in any weakness, to keep a brave face. But the man— Castin, that was his name— Castin’s inquisitive gaze invited her to let everything out. So with wide, terrified eyes, she let the tears flow. Her face crumpled like paper caught in a flame as she curled up and let her body seize and twitch as she sobbed desperately into her hands. The

And that, that was when the music started; a single instrument, a violin by the sound of it. The sound started soft and sad, rising into the air in a soothing tune. As it seeped into the woman’s system, its healing melody found its way into the deepest parts of her pain, the tortured feelings yielding their spaces to the purity of these notes. Ideas, feelings, guilty regrets, all poured out of her in a melee of darkness that let itself be carried away by the caress of music. Chord after crystalline chord, suspended in graceful eddies of sound, vibrating with the echo of the pain that had burrowed into her soul as the music welled up from soft to raw and unbridled. It swelled and heaved enough to fill the room with its anguish, breaking open the heart of this woman in a strident spiralling crescendo. Swirling around both figures in the room, the woman let her worst fears float up and away as the violin slowed, giving way to light and peace of mind.

As the music faded into a weightless silence, the woman found she wasn’t crying. Instead, she sat in tearstained awe, feeling freer than she’d had since teenage recollection of a pre-reformed society. Her gaze slowly lifted from the polished wood of Castin’s violin to his unlined, kind face. He’d drawn out the weight of her layers, of years’ worth of anger and sadness, the criminal fruit of illegalized emotional freedom: he’d worked a miracle. Unsteadily getting to her feet, she gently took hold of Castin’s hand. Levelly looking him in the eye, she smiled.

“Thank you.”

Castin met the woman’s gaze, his heart faltering under the undiluted relief in her eyes. Gripping her hand, he mouthed: You’re welcome. Reluctantly pulling away from his reassuring presence, the glowing woman headed back up the stairs, past the cashier and out into the crowded street. As this woman walked home, her contagious smile cleared a path through the resolutely depressed people around her, the poisonous cloud of suspicion beginning to form above their heads. She could feel it, worry blossoming inside of her once more; her smile shamefully slinked away to give its place to a preoccupied frown— an imperfect and weak expression. She quickly realized what she was projecting, and her anxiety about her expression only increased the panic. In her open, vulnerable state of mind, it wasn’t possible to rebuild the wall in time to hide from prying stares.

The understanding that it was too late came quickly after, only reinforced by the men in black positioned in front of her door.

***

The news reached Castin through his friend, the cashier. Ally crept down to his basement, stiff with guilt; her hands were tucked in front of her, interwoven. She cautiously pushed his door open to find him peacefully asleep in this armchair, head lolling over the side of the backrest. The painfully sweet sight jolted her out of her despondent haze and she marched over to his chair, gripping his shoulder and pulling him into an upright position. His eyes blinked open with obvious confusion.

What is it? he mouthed. Ally observed her dear friend, gauging how much pain this would cause him. He stared back, dread etched into his expression— he reached out to take her hand, inciting her to speak. She bit her lip, heart sinking further.

“Castin, I— she’s gone. Your most recent client, she panicked in the street and was noticed,” Ally explained, words heavy with regret. Castin’s eyes had glazed over, his face draining of its usual calm. He shook his head, his eyes trained on Ally’s heartbroken expression. It was true, then: he’d condemned someone.

You’ve condemned her. It’s your fault. What are you going to do about it?

Castin set a watery gaze on Ally, his mouth set in a thin line to keep the surge of hurt at bay. The more he held it back, however, the quicker the tears came. His heart, struggling to beat through the thickening veil of terrible guilt, was shattering, ready to shower his soul with shard after razor-sharp shard of hatred and regret and Castin’s hands couldn’t help but start shaking, betraying his tormented mental state.

He was becoming the very thing he was fighting against: miserable, angry, broken. He was losing strength quickly, weakening in the face of the probable death he’d caused.

With care, he set his violin onto the dusty stone floor, getting up from his seat. Throat tight, eyes moist, sobs ready to explode, he would have been unable to say anything had he even been able to. Though he fought hard to hide it from Ally, his face was frozen in a lost, grief-stricken glower. Hurt me, he wanted to scream. Make me pay for what I’ve done.

The conflicting emotions inside of her closest friend were obvious to Ally, even past his visible effort to keep them at bay. She fought hard and resisted the urge to take him into her arms and hug him until his tears faded; Ally let Castin, on the verge of an unstoppable flow of hurt, stumble out of the room.

Night fell early that night, both under and above ground.

You’ve condemned her. It’s your fault. What are you going to do about it?

Castin set a watery gaze on Ally, his mouth set in a thin line to keep the surge of hurt at bay. The more he held it back, however, the quicker the tears came. His heart, struggling to beat through the thickening veil of terrible guilt, was shattering, ready to shower his soul with shard after razor-sharp shard of hatred and regret and Castin’s hands couldn’t help but start shaking, betraying his tormented mental state.

He was becoming the very thing he was fighting against: miserable, hidden, broken. He was losing strength quickly, weakening in the face of the probable death he’d caused.