College had been the happiest time of her life. She'd spent hours every day practicing, her fingers flying over the keys, learning pieces by Mozart, Chopin, Rachmaninoff. Her professors had praised her technical skill and emotional depth. She'd performed in student recitals, her heart racing with excitement and fear. After each performance, she'd felt truly alive in a way that nothing else could match.
But dreams cost money, and scholarships only covered so much. By her third year, the financial pressure had become unbearable. Her mother was working two jobs, but still struggling. Her brothers needed help with their own school expenses. Maya had taken out student loans, but they weren't enough. She'd started working part-time jobs, fitting in shifts between practice sessions and classes. Sleep became a luxury she couldn't afford.
Then her mother got sick. Nothing life-threatening, but enough that she couldn't work for several months. Maya had to make a choice. She could continue pursuing her degree while her family struggled, or she could step up and help.
Really, it wasn't a choice at all.
She'd withdrawn from the conservatory just one year shy of graduating. The student loans still had to be paid back, degree or not. She'd found work at the Grand View estate, where the pay was decent and the tips could be good if you served the right tables. She'd told herself it was temporary, just until she got her family back on solid ground, just until she saved up enough to return and finish her degree.
That was 2 years ago.
Her mother was healthy again. Her brothers were doing well. But Maya was still here, still wearing this uniform, still carrying trays of champagne to people who didn't see her as a person at all.
The worst part wasn't the exhaustion or the low pay or even the rude customers. The worst part was walking past that piano every single night and feeling something inside her die a little more. She never touched it. She didn't even let herself look at it for too long. It hurt too much.
"Maya, stop daydreaming and start setting up table 7."
The sharp voice of her manager, Mr. Peterson, cut through her thoughts. He was a thin man with a permanent scowl, always stressed about something, always ready to criticize the staff.