The violin began speaking during rehearsal, which at first was blamed on exhaustion. The conductor froze when the instrument, resting innocently in its chair, sighed and said, “Could we perhaps not start with the sad one again?” The cellist crossed himself despite being an atheist. The percussionist laughed too hard, then left the room to vomit from fear.

The violin had opinions. Strong ones. It complained about vibrato abuse, cheap rosin, and audiences who applauded early during concertos “like tourists clapping for sunsets.” It claimed to remember previous owners, previous centuries even, and spoke wistfully about a woman in Prague in 1891 who “at least understood tempo.” The orchestra became divided. Some found the violin profound. Others found it unbearable. “It’s just another critic,” muttered the principal trumpet.

Eventually the violin refused performance altogether unless treated as an equal collaborator. Contracts were discussed. The violin insisted on being addressed by its full name, Lorenzo Bartolomeo Giuseppe Francesco di Cremona, which made rehearsals significantly longer. Yet when it finally played, really played, the room changed. The sound carried something almost human inside it, not perfection exactly, but memory. Audiences wept without understanding why. Afterwards they would stand in the lobby speaking softly, while backstage the violin smoked imaginary cigarettes and complained the acoustics were better in Prague.