The guitar lay across music where Jorge had left it. Ariana touched the guitar. It was still warm from where Jorge had held the instrument.
She studied the music but she couldn’t make a connection between the marks on the page and notes he had played. Black notes on white paper, like the black letters in her Latin book. But a hundred times more incomprehensible.
If she could only hear the music again. If she could see him play.
Perhaps he would show her how to play.
But she knew that would never happen. Her family would never agree. Music was not a subject for a woman. Music was only for troubadours and gypsies.
Yet – she would figure out a way. Somehow she would find a way.