He pauses longer than usual. No floating dots.
Kragen:Yeah. Some things follow you whether you invite them or not.
Kragen:How’s the instrument.
Me:Coming along.
The right side of the soundboard.
I’m doing the right side now. Not the whole thing—the right side, flowing up from the tail, mirroring the movement on the left without being symmetrical. Asymmetrical is more alive. The flowers on his world’s hillsides wouldn’t have been symmetrical. They would have spread across the slope organically, following the terrain instead of any deliberate pattern.
I’ve been working on this soundboard for four days.
I sit back and take in what I’ve done and what’s left, and I understand with complete clarity that I am going to cover the entire soundboard. Not because I planned to. Not because it’s what he ordered or what I quoted, or what any reasonable professional would do to a plain commission. Because the flowers belong there, all of them, covering the piece of wood the way they covered those hillsides. Anything less than that would be a lie about what this instrument is.
I’ve known this for two days. Only now do I let myself admit it.
I pick up the pen.
Kragen:Two weeks since your last update. Should I be worried?
Me:No. It’s taking longer than I estimated.
Kragen:Longer how?
Me:I made some decisions about the finishing work that extended the timeline. Nothing that affects the structure or playability. The instrument is fine.
Kragen:Honey.
Me:It’s fine. I’ll be in touch when I have a new completion date.
Kragen:I’m not worried about the timeline. I’m wondering if you’re okay.
Me:I’m okay. I’m working.
Kragen:Okay.
Kragen:I played something at the bar last night that I’ve been sitting with for a while. Finished it, finally. Or it finished itself—not sure which.
Me:Which is it usually?
Kragen:Honestly? It finishes itself. I just show up.
Me:That sounds about right.
Kragen:How do you know when something you’re making is done?
Me:When anything I add would be a lie.
He doesn’t respond for a few minutes.
Kragen:Yeah. That’s exactly it.
The painting takes three more days.
I work within the burned lines the way I always work: the pigment going inside the channels the pen made, the flowers settling into the wood like they’d always been there. Pale pink, the color I mixed from the description he gave me, darker toward the center of each bloom and lighter at the edges, the variation that he said made them look like each flower was individual rather than stamped from a pattern.
I work from the peghead down and around, following the design I burned, the flowers filling the soundboard, finding every space, settling into the grain.
