Unexpectedly, Tim didn’t see the last days of the week pass.

   That wasn’t how it worked most of the time. Especially after great-uncle John got sick, every day slowly went by. The piano helped to ease this feeling  for the most part, but after a while of practicing, boredom inevitably settled in, his head kept thinking several things at once.

   It seemed like the sky never got dark, the next week was always miles away. But this time, when he least expected it, it was Saturday again.

   He could get used to this. If only every week were like this.

   At that moment, in a place further away from the garden where the other children were playing, Tim was lying on the grass, the afternoon sun was blocked by the book he held above his face. It was a copy of A Study in Scarlet, one of the Sherlock Holmes’s stories he had found on the bookshelf in the playroom.

   “‘Well, study it,’ said Stamford, taking his leave. ‘You’ll see that it’s quite complicated. I bet he’ll know more about you than you do about him. Goodbye.’ ‘Goodbye!’ I replied, and entered the hotel, deeply interested in the person I had just met.’” Tim recited the last lines out loud. “And that’s the end of chapter one.”

   “You are good at this.”

   Eliza was sitting next to him with her legs crossed, in the middle of them were some flower petals that she had plucked and dumped there while she listened to him read.

   When Tim found the book on the shelf, he thought it would be a good one to show Eliza. It was one of his favourite stories, he wanted to tell her a little about the book, he just didn’t imagine that Eliza would ask him to read the entire first chapter.

   “At what?”

   “At reading. You read very fast, and your voice changes a little every time you change characters,” she explained. “It’s quite funny.”

   “I do this?” he asked, resting the open book on his chest. She nodded her head.

   “You have a kind of orange voice to do Watson’s lines, but with Sherlock it seems kind of gray” she continued. “, and with Stamford it’s baby blue, but that voice doesn’t seem to suit him that much.”

   Tim laughed. He had already gotten used to Eliza’s peculiar way of describing things, but it seemed like she always surprised him.

   “It must be because of the time I spent reading to my uncle” he explained. “he liked me to do the voices, I still haven’t gotten out of that habit.”

   “Did you live with your uncle before here?”

   Tim nodded. “He got sick months ago,” he replied, his voice a little fast. “he liked me to read books to him sometimes.”

   “Ah, I’m sorry about your uncle.”

   “No, it’s fine.”

   Tim watched as Eliza removed the petals from yet another flower. This one was beige in colour, almost pink, and seemed to be very soft, her lap already had several of them.

   He tried to imagine why she liked doing this so much, maybe it was a tic, something that has no apparent reason, but is done simply because it is relaxing. He himself could think of some tics he had, like when he ran his finger over the piano keys, or just moved his hands a lot when he was nervous and didn’t know what to do with them.

   “You know something cool?” Eliza spoke again. “When I’m undecided about something or want to know something, I always ask a flower, it will know the answer.”

   This time, Tim didn’t understand anything she meant.

   “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy” she laughed. “Actually, it’s just a game I like to play. I ask something, I take one petal for yes, another for no, and the last one I say is the answer.”

   She picked up another flower next to her.

   “For example, I will ask: ‘Do I enjoy reading with Tim?’ and now it will answer me. Yes.” She took out a petal. “No.” She took out another. “Yes. No. Yes. No… and yes.”

   “Come on, you knew it would end with yes.”

   “I didn’t know! Counting beforehand ruins the experience.” She put her hair back. “And the flower didn’t lie this time, it doesn’t always work out when I do it. Pick one flower and do it yourself if you want.”

   Tim picked up another flower, he decided to pick one other than the ones she had picked previously. It was a yellow one that he had close to him, it had enough petals that he could look at it and not immediately know the result.

   He thought about what he would ask, but only one thing came to mind at the moment.

   Would he end his life alone?

   He started taking one petal, then another, then another, and when there were three left, he realised that the result would not be what he wanted.

   He let it go. It wasn’t as if the result of this child’s play had any relation to reality.

   “Tim, what happened to your arm?” Eliza suddenly wanted to know. “I had noticed that before, but I didn’t think it was the time to ask. Where did you get it?”

   Tim held the book to his face again, skimming through the words of the next chapter, as if he hadn’t heard his question. For a second, he thought about responding, but it wouldn’t be worth it, not now, he liked it better when they talked about lighter topics.

   “Do you like to read?” he asked her instead. Eliza was silent for a second, probably not expecting the sudden change in conversation.

   “Not really, I can’t read as fast as you, but I like stories” she said.

   “What kind of stories?”

   “My favorites are fairy tales, with enchanted princesses and princes…”

   “Oh, these? They’re kind of boring.”

   “Is not.”

   “Is too.”

   “Um… let’s see what this flower thinks about this.” Eliza clutched the last flower she had picked. “Flower, are fairytales boring, or is Tim?” She began to remove the petals. “Fairytales. Tim. Fairytales. Tim…”

   “Okay… it’s not that it’s boring, it’s just that mystery books are so much better.”

   “You say that because you’re a boy” she said, her hands turning over the petals in her lap. “you would never understand.”

   “I mean, I like some fairy tales” he tried to correct. “There are some that are very interesting…”

   The girl laughed. He thought she was upset about what he had said, but it seemed like she was amused by his attempt to apologise.

   “But I also found your book interesting. By the way, how did Sherlock know that Watson had gone to Afghanistan? Does he have any powers?”

   It was Tim’s turn to laugh.

   “No, it’s better than that, you’ll understand.”

   “You’ll have to read the rest to me later then.”

   Eliza smiled without showing her teeth. Despite her thin body, her cheeks were soft and formed a dimple on the right side of her face every time she smiled, on the left side the dimple was less apparent. That was one of the things he had noticed about her.

   Eliza took a petal from her lap and twirled it between her fingers.

   “My mother used to read these stories to me,” she continued. “The fairy tales, I mean. They are the only stories I know.”

   “My mother also read to me when I was little,” he said. But now she’s dead, Tim added in his mind. “And your mother, is she… well?”

   “Yes, she is alive, she just… doesn’t read anything to me anymore.”

   They stayed in silence for a few moments. The sun came out from behind the cloud and illuminated the light strands of the girl’s eyelashes, who stared at the top of a nearby tree moving in the breeze.

   “Hey Tim! Where are you?”

   It was Stephen’s voice, Tim could hear his footsteps through the grass approaching them. He didn’t even need to say anything for Eliza to quickly hide behind a nearby bush.

   “I’m here” he said as soon as she disappeared behind the branches. He closed the book and stood up from the grass.

   “The others want to play cops and robbers, don’t you want to play with us?” invited Stephen.

   “I-I… I don’t know if—”

   “You don’t have to be good to participate, it’s just to relax a little” he interrupted him.

   “Yeah, Tim, let’s go!” Norman came running to join them. “You never want to play anything.”

   It was true. They had already called him to play before. Almost every time, it was Norman who called him. He had already recovered from his cold and was now spending more time with the other boys. He was the one who called him when they wanted someone to be the goalkeeper at a football game, or when they were going to play hide-and-seek but no one could decide who would be the seeker. But none of the times did Tim agree to play.

   Most of the time, they called him in the late afternoon, the time when Eliza would be waiting for him, usually at the edge where Mrs. Parsons let them go.

   “How do you play cops and robbers?”

   “You don’t know?” Norman was surprised. “Well, we’ll teach you while we’re playing.”

   He glanced at the bush where Eliza was hiding, wondering if she was still there. He couldn’t see her anymore.

   “All right,” he relented. “I can play with you.”

   “Nice!” Norman celebrated. “Come on, they are there waiting for us.”

                                    …

His mouth was dry from him breathing through it so much, he needed to drink water. His legs didn’t work anymore, he couldn’t run any longer, he ran for so long that, even standing still, he still felt like he was moving.

   Being the robber wasn’t that difficult, he stayed hidden most of the time, but being the cop meant he had to run after the other kids, and they were fast, too fast.

   The only person he could catch more easily was Edmond because he was the youngest. He had already managed to catch Sally a few times, but he didn’t have the same luck with the other boys, especially Charlie. Even with the rule of not being able to use their abilities in play, he was still the fastest of them all.

   The children were still playing outside when he decided to stop to rest. Anne was in the living room playing with the dolls with Beatrice and the babies when he entered, Mrs Parsons was sitting on the sofa while holding Peter on her lap, the baby was laughing as she held a teddy bear, while little Madeline was concentrating on what Anne and Beatrice were doing.

   After drinking a glass of water from the kitchen, he went upstairs, he was planning to go to his room, he wanted to finish reading one of the books he had picked up to read before bed, but he decided to take a peek through the music room door.

   The piano was there, in the same place it always was. The slit of light that came through the curtain dimly illuminated the upholstered seat, small sprinkles of illuminated dust spread through the air.

   Maybe it wouldn’t be a problem if he stayed there for a while.

   He sat down on the bench, opening the keyboard. There was already a sheet of music open in front of him. Für Elise, by Beethoven.

   His fingers sank into the keys slowly. The first notes were high, followed by a sequence of lower notes. The first note that was repeated many times was E5 and its sharp, and then Si4, Re5, Do5 and La4, he already had this part engraved in his head. The sound of the next notes echoed perfectly in his mind, his hand moved almost of its own accord.

   He remembered when Uncle John started teaching him this song. He was 10 years old, it had been the most difficult song he had ever received. At first, he played slowly, which helped him not to miss notes, but after he learned to play with both hands, his uncle asked him to play faster.

   “Faster!” he could hear his uncle’s voice between one note and another. His fingers ran across the keyboard in what was the most difficult part of the song, but just when he had expressed the slightest bit of happiness at not having made a mistake so far, he ended up pressing the wrong key.

   He started again. The same notes: E4, B4, Re5, Do5 and La4, but now played faster than before. La3, Do4, La4, Si4… missed again.

   He started from the beginning once more, this time faster than his last attempt, until he reached the trickiest part, where he slowed down.

   But even so, he made a mistake again.

   “Damn it!” he swore under his breath as he tapped the keyboard. This wasn’t a very difficult song, he had already lost count of how many times he had played it without much effort. What was happening?

   That was the first time he had played anything since his uncle died. Before, playing gave him a different feeling, it was pleasant to listen to, it allowed him to travel, and most importantly, to stop thinking. But now, all the piano did was force him to think. Think about his uncle when he taught him, about the classes he always had after he came back from school, that was the first thing that came to mind now with every note he heard.

   Now, he was afraid that he would never hear anything different again.

   “I didn’t know you played.” Tim looked up to see Mrs. Parsons standing in the doorway. The dim lighting in the room made it seem like she had fewer wrinkles than normal, but it also contributed to him being startled by her arrival.

   He was screwed.

   “I-I’m sorry, Mrs. Parsons, I shouldn’t have…”

   “It’s okay, darling, I won’t be mad at you” She approached, resting her hand on the piano. Her bun was done behind her head and white locks fell in front of her ears. “I would have let you play if you had told me sooner.”

   “I’m sorry I didn’t say it.”

   “Did you learn to play from your great-uncle?” he asked.

   “Yes, he taught me when I was younger.”

   Mrs. Parsons approached the bench and Tim gave her space to sit. “John was a very intellectual man, he knew how to play like no one else, no wonder you are so talented at the piano.”

   “I’m not that good anymore, I’m making a lot of mistakes…”

   “Making mistakes is common,” she replied. “Still, you’re good for a child your age.”

   She began to play the first notes of Für Elise on the piano. Her playing was soft, just like when she played with the other orphans days ago, she could see the difference between how the sound came out now and when Tim played previously. She paused and looked at him so he could continue playing the part on the left, and they managed to get through the fast part of the song without difficulty.

   Mrs. Parsons had a wrinkled face and was a little intimidating, but now he could understand a little better why the other orphans were so attached to her. Despite her strictness, he had no doubt that she truly cared about the children.

   “Since when did you know my uncle?” he asked after they finished the song.

   “Oh, it has been many years, long before you were born” She explained. “He was a doctor at the hospital here in the village a long time ago. When I heard he had passed away, I almost couldn’t believe it, he was always so strong.”

   Tim remembered well the time before his great-uncle got sick. He was never unwell, he couldn’t remember a time when that man had caught a cold. His hand problem was the only thing he had, that’s why he taught him to play, he wanted someone to play for him.

   “I owe a lot to your uncle” Mrs. Parsons continued. “If I had not met him, perhaps this orphanage would never exist.”

   “Did he tell you? About his ability?”

   “Yes, he did. I was going through a very… difficult period at the time, I think he told me to try to help me…” she paused, she seemed to be careful when using words. “Well, I think that at that time he already liked me, that must have been why.”

   “Funny, I can’t imagine my uncle liking anyone.”

   “But he did, he even asked me to marry him once” she recalled, laughing to herself.

   “Why didn’t you accept?”

   “The right thing would be for me to accept, of course, it’s not every day that a widow has the opportunity to remarry, but I had the orphanage to look after, I wasn’t in the position.”

   Mrs. Parsons took a deep breath, looking down in thought, it seemed as if they had entered into a delicate matter.

   “Well” she said as she stood up, “I will leave you to it, I have other things to do. You can keep playing if you want.”

   Tim nodded slightly as she disappeared through the door. He would have gone with her, but he spent a while staring at the piano keys, thinking about whether he would play another song or not. In the end, he got up, he wouldn’t have been able to play anything else anyway.