The Harp's Wish
by Esther Lee Sze Chai 6H
This short story was written for the He(a)rd Zine, a Hong Kong-based magazine that showcases young student writers. The theme of this issue is Soundtrack.
“Ping—” A flowy and airy sound rang in Cithara’s mind, the same ethereal note her mother played for as long as Cithara lived.
Cithara’s breath hitched and her eyes snapped open, waking from her deep slumber.
“...it happened again. Was I hallucinating again…?”
Her hands subconsciously gripped her blanket harder, her mother had died years ago. Why was she hallucinating those unmistakable notes again? Cithara took a shaky breath and tried to desperately calm herself down, like she always did when she “heard’’ those notes again.
Cithara’s foot touched the ground, the cold wood against her warm feet. She slipped away towards the common room, trying not to wake her light sleeper sister. She tiptoed past the hall filled with luxurious paintings of her ancestors, then sneaked down the staircase made of quarts. Then finally, Cithara reached the common room.
The enormous room was adorned with marble statues that cost an arm and a leg, shelves of thick books covered in dust which Cithara had not a single interest in, and some bits-and-bobs that her sister Aria bought with her weird taste of “cuteness”. A massive but elegant chandelier was hung on the roof, other ordinary people might think that “Oh, that? Probably just an exquisite chandelier.”
But to Cithara? It was a murderer in her eyes and she would scream bloody murder at it just in pure hatred. The harp her mother once treasured fell into her eyesight and the memories flooded in like an apocalypse…
Years ago, Cithara was just a small, delicate child, her mother would always play the harp. The harp was like a sacred object to her mother, always cleaned and polished.
One fateful day, Cithara was called to the common room by her mother. “Cithara? I have something to show you.”
Cithara skipped to the room and plopped down the velvet armchair which was meters away from the harp, and her mother started playing a tune she had never heard before. Cithara was in awe; the melody was ethereal and divine. Almost as if an angel was playing the harp instead of her mother.
Then. It happened.
BANG. Cithara let out a horrified shriek. The dazzling chandelier, once hanging on the ceiling, dropped on her mother. She darted forward, but it was too late. Her beloved mother’s lifeless body was under the enormous chandelier, the one she bought herself. Her elegant outfit was stained in her own crimson blood. It was an instant kill.
Cithara let out a deafening shrill. Her mother died, in front of her. She dropped to the floor beside her mother and shook her with all of her strength, but it was clearly no use.
“Wake up! Please…! You don’t have to play dead anymore… T-the game is over! …There’s not even a game!” Cithara’s voice cracked as she spoke, tears streaming down her cheek as she choked out the broken words.
“You can wake up now…please don’t play dead…” But it was no use. She shook her mother again, hardly able to control her emotions. How could she control them? Her mother just died in front of her! Then her mind went blank.
Cithara still remembers her sister’s non-stop sobs, her father’s silent, rare but unshed tears, the pale carnations and the white chrysanthemums beside the casket, her family and the harpists at her mother’s funeral, and the look of guilt and grief in her own eyes when she looked at the mirror that day.
Time passed, and Cithara never forgot her mother’s tragic death. She became more reserved and more obscure. It was a living nightmare; one she couldn’t escape. Every single night when she went to bed, it haunted her like an unwanted but stubborn ghost.
“Play the harp.” A calm, almost recognizable voice echoed in her mind. Like a ripple in her once calm pool of water in her garden of inner thoughts.
Cithara’s fingers twitched by her sides as she considered the seemingly annoying thought.
“That’s ridiculous,” She muttered. “That thing killed my mother secondhand.” But the voice had a familiar tint to its peculiar tone, but she couldn't quite place it. “She would love to hear you play again, even if she never did.”
Cithara’s hand twitched again, that voice was getting to her and she hated how it worked. She wanted to play, she really did. All she needed was a little , just a little courage.
Before she could think properly, she strode towards the seat of the harp. The seat was covered in dust, untouched since her mother’s unfortunate demise. Cithara dusted the grey particles off. She sat in the Chinese-silk-covered seat, adorned with pearls from French Polynesia; it felt like a throne once owned by her mother. And now she was the new ruler.
Cithara’s fingers brushed across the strings of the harp, leaving a scale of ethereal notes behind like a shadow. She had memorized her mother’s signature tunes since she was a small child. After all, her mother was a renowned harpist who went to enormous events and competitions for world-ranked musicians. Like the international “Symphony of Harps” and the “Elite Harpist Meetings”.
Cithara always saw her on the huge TV in the common room and would exclaim to her older sister Aria who preferred books more, “Ariaaaaa!” She screamed on the top of her lungs in pure bliss. “Moms on TV again!” And her sister would only reply with an exasperated but amused sigh.
“You always squeal in unfiltered joy when you see Mom on TV… Now what do they say about this type of ‘mature’ behavior?” Aria flipped through the pages of her book, then stopped abruptly and shot a half-hearted glare at her sister. “Oh, right! You’re officially irritating — in a good way.”
Back to the present, Cithara stopped brushing and stared blankly at the harp.
“Should I-”
“Just play the harp.”
Before she could even think, Cithara’s fingers started playing the harp with sharp precision, every single note was abounded with grief and regret. It was a piece of art painted by melancholy, a graceful but somber tune. Cithara’s fingers danced on the strings like she was as experienced as her mother, her skill and agility a perfect replica of her eminent mother’s.
It was like a ridiculously bizarre dream. The one who had a grudge against the harp was the one playing the harp.
Time passed, and Cithara kept playing those sorrowful tunes. Cithara was completely focused on the harp, her gaze never wavering from the instrument like she was magnetized.
The performance was absolutely breathtaking.
Finally, Cithara finished the tune with a note that was as clear as a crystal. Then followed by a series of applause. Cithara froze, her hands freezing midair.
The sound echoed through the corridor and the common room like a lost secret, waiting to be listened to. A face filled with bewilderment popped out from the corridor.
“AHHHHHH—”
Cithara screamed in pure horror, her expression a child who had just been told that spiders’ blood is transparent. But it was only her sister, Aria. A small, knowing smile plastered on her lips as she almost scared the soul out of her little sister.
“Y-You were listening..?!” Cithara managed to gasp out a word, the realization slowly dawning and her shock evident on her face. Her cheeks turned crimson and her ears were tinted beet red, she could rival a tomato now. “...Maybe? But it was pretty ethereal and it was like a spell was cast on me to listen!” Aria shrugged with nonchalance, not caring one bit about her sister’s horrified expression.
Cithara let out a shaky sigh of relief. “I thought it was merely a child’s plan. You really mean that?” Cithara clutched her sleeves with alleviation as Aria returned a sheer nod in response, but none of them seemed to notice their deceased mother’s soul watching from the chandelier.
A tear rolled down her mother’s soul’s cheek, yet it vanished like mist before it could touch the ground. The soul’s eyes were flickering like dying stars.
“Cithara…Aria…”
A bittersweet smile brushed over the soul’s mouth as she whispered to no one in particular, her voice cracked as she spoke again.
“I’m so proud of you two…”
As if she heard her mother’s soul’s broken whisper, Cithara’s head snapped towards where the soul’s direction was. Her usual soft, calming gaze sharpened as she stared at the spot. “What was that noise…?”
Aria followed her direction and squinted at the chandelier before shrugging with a carefree smile.
“You’re hallucinating. Again.”
Cithara stared wide-eyed at her sister’s unmoving statement. “How?! My own, beloved sister calling me a hallucinator? Betrayal!” Aria knew there was no real heat about it. The sister she knew was finally returning from a long slumber filled with endless, utterly horrifying nightmares. Aria sighed with an expression that screamed amusement and dragged the yawning Cithara by hand back to her room while the soul watched in the absence of sound.
“C’mon. You need some well deserved rest. Now go get your beauty sleep, you tiny gremlin of unneeded trouble. I’m not buying you a triple expresso. …Or a mountain of caramel toffees.”
Cithara followed Aria like a petulant child who got dragged away from the candy store by their stern mother.
“But-”
“No.’’
As the duo strolled back to their own rooms, the soul watched in prideful silence, then started to fade. First, the tips of their fingers…to the palm…to the elbow…the arm…then the whole body. The ghost’s transparent body is now silvery dust, then blown away by some unfelt wind.
Leaving nothing but a fulfilled, long-awaited wish behind.