The early light spilled through the tall classroom windows, pale and cool, washing over the rows of music stands and empty chairs. Ophelia stood just inside the doorway for a moment, still and silent, her breath steadying after the brisk walk from her locker. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of air vents and the gentle clinking of instruments being set up by other students—though she didn’t focus on them. Her world, in this moment, narrowed to the open flute case resting on her desk.

Her hands trembled faintly, not from nerves but from the morning chill still lingering in her fingers. She exhaled once, slowly, before unzipping the case. The faint metallic scent of polished silver rose up to greet her, familiar and calming. Inside, the flute gleamed like captured moonlight, each piece nestled perfectly in the dark velvet lining. Headjoint, body, footjoint—all in their proper places.

She adjusted her seat slightly before leaning forward, her eyes tracing the delicate curve of the lip plate and the fine engravings along the tuning slide. She always began with the same careful rhythm, the quiet ritual that had become second nature. Her left hand lifted the headjoint first. Cool metal brushed her fingertips as she held it up to the light, checking for any faint smudges or dust. She rubbed it gently with a soft polishing cloth until it gleamed even brighter. Then came the slow breath out—almost a sigh—as she turned the piece in her hands, aligning the embouchure hole so that it caught a small slice of the morning sun.

Her case still lay open, the other two sections waiting patiently. Ophelia’s right hand hovered above the main body of the flute, the largest and most intricate piece. The keys glinted softly, some bright, some shadowed. She lifted it with care, mindful not to press down on the rods. The smooth, familiar weight settled into her palms—light, but alive, as if holding a piece of sound itself.

The moment before she joined the pieces together was always her favorite. It was quiet, suspended between stillness and creation. She lined up the headjoint, twisting gently until it slid into place with that faint, perfect resistance. The silver clicked lightly as she adjusted the alignment, ensuring the embouchure hole lined neatly with the center of the keys.

Her movements were unhurried, deliberate. She pressed her lips together, testing the feel of her mouth shape, silently imagining the first note of the day—how it would sound, where her breath would fall.

Next came the footjoint. She lifted it from its slot, aligning the small rod with the last key of the body, twisting carefully until it sat straight. Another small click. A whisper of metal on metal. She checked every angle, adjusting until it was exactly as she liked—nothing crooked, nothing forced.

For a long moment, she simply held the flute fully assembled, her reflection bending faintly across its smooth surface. It gleamed beneath the classroom light, polished and complete, and her reflection—soft, uncertain—looked back.

She set it gently on her lap, taking a deep breath. The faint smell of metal polish mixed with the paper-scent of sheet music stacked beside her stand. The classroom felt both wide and close, the air full of quiet movement.

Ophelia reached for her cloth again, running it once more along the instrument’s body, removing any faint prints she might have left while assembling it. The sound of the fabric brushing silver was almost like a whisper. When she finished, she folded the cloth neatly and laid it in the corner of the open case.

Her bag sat on the floor beside her chair. She reached into it and pulled out her small pencil pouch, her tuner, and a single folded piece of soft blue cleaning gauze. Everything found its place on the desk in a neat, methodical order—left to right, just as she always arranged it. It wasn’t that she needed it that way; it simply felt right. Predictable. Calm.

The air was cool against her face, carrying faint traces of brass oil and wooden reeds from nearby instruments. She glanced toward the clock, not really reading the time, just grounding herself in the moment. Her fingers tapped the flute’s keys absentmindedly, not pressing down, just feeling the arrangement—the spacing, the pattern, the way her fingertips fit so naturally against them. She rolled her shoulders back, loosening the stiffness of the morning.

Her heart gave a soft, steady beat in her chest. Not nervous. Not excited. Just ready.

Ophelia adjusted the height of her music stand, the metal legs scraping faintly against the tiled floor. She lifted the stack of papers and set them neatly in place, smoothing the edges until they were even. Her pencil rested just above them, the eraser pointing left.

She took another breath—slower this time—and turned her focus back to her flute. Her right hand lifted it carefully, the silver cool against her skin. She brought it up toward her face, her fingers resting gently on the keys. The small, circular pads pressed faintly against her fingertips. Her mouth softened as she lifted the headjoint to align with her lips, testing the distance, the angle. Not to play, not yet—just to feel the weight and balance, to remind her body where everything belonged.

The smooth edge of the lip plate brushed against her skin, faintly cold. She breathed out, letting the warmth of her breath ghost across the metal before lowering it again. Her eyes closed for a moment. Morning had always been her quietest time, the one space before sound filled the day.

Her fingers flexed again, tracing invisible scales in the air. She shifted her posture, back straight, feet flat. Every movement was measured, gentle, a routine carved by countless mornings before this one.

The light through the window shifted slightly as clouds drifted past the sun, softening to a muted silver that matched the instrument resting in her hands. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, catching the glow as she tilted her flute again to check alignment one last time. Perfect.

The faint echo of footsteps and distant chairs scraping filled the background, but she barely noticed. The world around her had gone hazy, quiet. Her mind rested in that small space between breath and music, where preparation was almost as sacred as performance.

Ophelia brushed one final fingerprint away, setting her polishing cloth aside once more. She looked at the flute—truly looked at it—as though seeing it for the first time all over again. The smooth metal, the intricate mechanics, the soft way it caught the light.

Then she drew in one deep, centered breath, closed her eyes, and let the calm settle over her completely.

When she opened them again, she was ready. Not to play yet—but to begin.