Molly Dunlop

The small apartment of Mark Tempe, a pianist and teacher of solfeggio at the local music college, was cozy. In the corner of the room stood his favorite piano, slightly worn by time, but with a deep, velvety sound.

Mark had just finished working on the piano transcription of Bach's F minor chorale prelude "Ich ruf zu Dir, Herr Jesu Christ" and was now sitting in an armchair with a cup of strong tea, enjoying the moment of peace, with a sense of accomplishment. But then suddenly the doorbell rang. Mark was surprised - for he was not expecting guests - and, putting his cup on the table, went to open it.

Doctor Arago, his college colleague and head of the music theory department, stood in the doorway. A short, thin man with gray hair and deep-set gray eyes, he always gave the impression of an enigmatic scholar who was somehow stuck in the mundane.

"Good evening, mister Tempe," Arago said, smiling gently. "Forgive my intrusion, but I thought I might find you at home. I have something I would like to share with you."

Mark invited him in.

"Of course, doctor, come in. Would you like some tea?"

"Thank you, if it's not too much trouble."

Mark led the guest into the living room, seated him in an armchair and soon returned with hot tea. Arago carefully placed the capacious leather briefcase he had brought with him on the table.

"You're probably wondering why I've come to see you," the doctor began, gently stroking his briefcase. "I was working in the college archives today. I was looking for manuscripts for my new lecture on modal modes in early music. And I came across something that I think you might find interesting."

With these words he opened his briefcase and took out an old, hand-bound notebook, yellowed with age. On the cover, in calligraphic handwriting, was written: "Raimund Clement. Always Visible Asia".

"Is this a manuscript?" Mark asked, frowning slightly.

"Yes, and not just any manuscript," Arago replied. "It's a collection of piano pieces by a Polish composer named Raimund Clement, who immigrated from Poland to Canada."

Mark remembered that Clement's name had been mentioned briefly in musical circles, but he knew of no serious works about this composer.

"I thought you, as a pianist, would appreciate it most," continued doctor Arago. "It seems there are fragments in it that no one has ever performed. I would like to ask you to take a look."

Mark carefully picked up the notebook. Inside were sheets of music and thoughts about music, lyrical lines that seemed either philosophical or downright melancholy.

"Do you want me to play any of this?"

"Exactly," nodded doctor Arago. "Perhaps the music of Raimund Clement will come to life again thanks to you."

Mark turned a few pages and came across a play entitled "All for Asia".

"Very unusual harmonies for their time," he remarked, lightly running his fingers over the piano keys, picking out the first chords.

Sounds began to fill the room. The music was strange, hypnotic, as if echoes of different eras were intertwined in it. Doctor Arago's face became concentrated, he listened with tension, as if catching every nuance. When the piece ended, silence hung in the room.

"Do you feel it?" Doctor Arago asked quietly.

"What exactly?" Mark didn't understand.

"It's as if this music attracts something... from the past."

Mark looked at him in bewilderment, but did not have time to say anything. From the street came a sound similar to a distant melody, as if someone was playing an old tune on a violin.

"Is this a coincidence?" Mark asked, but there was already uncertainty in his voice.

Doctor Arago shook his head:

"This is only the beginning, mister Tempe. Raimund Clement had a difficult fate. He was in love with a Canadian actress, to whom he dedicated most of his compositions. I think we will have to unravel her mystery if we want to understand the music of this Pole."

Mark didn't have time to respond to doctor Arago's words, because his daughter Molly looked in through the door of the room. The little girl was only six years old, she had long black hair and big eyes that always sparkled with curiosity. As usual, the girl was dressed in her favorite long-sleeved white shirt with bright red stripes.

"Dad, are you playing someone?" she asked, but immediately noticed Arago.

Her face immediately lit up with a smile.

"Oh, wow, it's doctor Arago! Hi!" Molly exclaimed happily, running up to him.

She jumped lightly onto his lap, as if it were an old ritual. The doctor, with slight surprise, but also tenderness, embraced her, holding her carefully, as if she were the most fragile string.

"Will you tell me a story? Please!" Molly asked, looking up at him with her shining eyes.

Mark smiled. Molly loved the doctor's stories, although he rarely told them.

"Well, dear Molly," said Arago, coughing slightly, "I will tell you a very special tale. About tiny creatures called Quintans."

"Quintans? Who are they?" Molly's eyes widened in delight.

"They are small creatures that live inside musical instruments," the doctor began in a quiet but kind tone. "They love music more than anything else in the world. Each Quintan is associated with one note, and when the instrument sounds, they dance."

"Dancing?" Molly asked, her little feet already beginning to bounce to the rhythm of the imaginary music.

"Yes," continued Arago, nodding. "When you play the piano, my dear Molly, the Quintans come alive. They climb onto the lid of your instrument, jump from it onto the keys, and create a magical light that you and I cannot see.

"What if someone plays really badly? Are they sad?" the girl asked anxiously.

Doctor Arago smiled thoughtfully:

"No, they are not sad. They just try to help the musician find the right melody. Sometimes they whisper in his ear, sometimes they show the way in musical dreams."

Molly thought for a moment, then smiled broadly.

"So when I learn scales, they come with me too?"

"Of course," the doctor confirmed, leaning a little closer. "The Quintans love scales. They're like ladders to them. They learn to climb higher and higher."

Molly burst into laughter, so infectious that her father Mark couldn't help but smile.

"Doctor Arago," said Molly, looking at him gravely, "if I play good music, will they become my friends?"

"They are already your friends, Molly. You just have to always listen to the music with your heart, and then the Quintans will always be there."

Molly nodded thoughtfully, climbed off his lap, and walked over to the piano. Her small fingers glided over the keys, playing a simple melody. Doctor Arago and Mark Tempe exchanged glances.

"Your daughter has a rare gift, mister Tempe," the doctor said quietly. "And perhaps the Quintans have already noticed it."

With these words he rose from his seat, and Mark accompanied him to the hallway. Doctor Arago slowly put on his shabby jacket, carefully adjusting the collar, as if this gesture had special significance.

Molly, seeing the doctor go, immediately stopped playing and rushed into the hall, where she stood next to the coat rack and watched the doctor with the delight that little children feel for people who can tell stories. And when Arago was about to open the door, he suddenly turned to the girl.

"Remember one thing, Molly," he whispered, looking straight into her eyes, "if you can handle it, you will see the Quintans."

His voice was warm, but his words were mysterious, as if he were conveying a secret to her. Molly's eyes widened, captivated by the promise.

"Really?" she breathed out.

Doctor Arago did not answer directly. He only winked at her, touched her shoulder lightly, and opened the door.

"Goodbye, mister Tempe," he said in a normal tone. "We'll talk about that manuscript later."

"Goodbye, doctor," Mark replied, watching his guest leave.

When the door closed behind the doctor, the apartment became quiet again. Mark returned to the living room, and Molly remained standing in the hallway, thoughtfully looking at the place where Arago had just stood.

"You will see the Quintans," she whispered under her breath, as if tasting the words.

Her little fingers automatically repeated the imaginary melody on the invisible keys. This idea of seeing mysterious creatures dancing inside the music lit a bright flame in her heart. And with this flame she returned to the piano, deciding that now she would play even better. After all, if Doctor Arago had told the truth, something magical was waiting for her ahead.

At this point, her father Mark returned to the living room and sat down at a small table on which stood a wooden box containing photographs. He looked at it for a long time, as if considering whether to open it, and then slowly lifted the lid. Inside were photographs from different years: friends, concerts, scenes from his life. He sorted through them until he came across a photograph that made him freeze for a moment. It was a picture taken eight years ago. It was of Harey Dunlop, his ex-wife and Molly's mother.

Harey looked bright, lively, even a little daring in this photo. Short dark hair, slightly tousled, deep brown eyes and a slight half-smile that spoke of her independent spirit. She was a pianist, like Mark, but with a completely different temperament - energetic, passionate, with a thirst for freedom, which ultimately destroyed their marriage.

Mark ran his fingers sadly over the photograph. Their divorce was inevitable. Harey felt that family life and a small town were stifling her ambitions. She wanted to travel, play on big stages, write music. Mark, on the other hand, found happiness in teaching and a quiet life with his family. The divorce was painful, but in some ways fair. The only thing Mark was grateful to Harey for was that she left him with a daughter. He looked at the picture again and quietly muttered:

"Be blessed, Harey..."

He couldn't forget how they had discussed the name of their child. Harey had insisted that the girl should have her maiden name, Dunlop. Mark hadn't argued then. He understood that for his wife it was a symbol of independence, a way to leave her mark on her daughter's life, even if she was far away. And Mark didn't resent it. On the contrary, he thought that "Dunlop" suited Molly better than "Tempe".

Putting the photographs back, Mark wondered what Harey would say if she saw Molly now, so engrossed, so much like her, but with the quiet tenacity she seemed to have inherited from her father. He could hear Molly playing her tune in the next room, perhaps imagining the Quintans dancing around her.

Mark rose from his chair and walked into the room where the piano stood. Molly sat at the instrument, tired but happy, her fingers still gently touching the keys, as if she were talking to them.

"Well, my little pianist," Mark smiled, "it's time to sleep."

Molly looked at him with slight reluctance, but apparently the music had already taken all her strength, and she still nodded.

"Okay, dad. But tomorrow I want to play more!" she declared, jumping off the stool.

"I promise," Mark said, taking her hand and leading her into the bedroom.

As Molly crawled under the covers, Mark sat on the edge of her bed. She looked at him with her big eyes, still engrossed in her conversations about the Quintans.

"Daddy, do you think the Quintans really exist?" she asked, pulling the teddy bear towards her.

Mark smiled, but a little sadly.

"You know, Molly," he began, "Doctor Arago likes to tell interesting stories. But I don't think the Quintans are real creatures."

"But he said I could see them if I could!" the girl insisted, her eyes shining with hope.

Mark gently ran his hand through her hair.

"I think he meant something else," he said. "The Quintans are like a symbol. They're not real, but they can represent inspiration, the magic you feel when you play music. You say yourself that music sometimes seems to come alive, right?"

Molly thought for a moment, then nodded.

"Yeah," she replied, smiling. "Sometimes I think she's happy that I play her so well."

"That's what the Quintans are," Mark said. "They're the feeling you get when you're doing well and the music is part of you. They're not little people, my dear, they're something that lives inside your heart."

Molly looked at her father, as if deciding whether to believe him. Her eyes still sparkled, but now there was more thought in them than excitement.

"So if I play well, they will be "inside me"?" she clarified.

"Yes, that's right," Mark said softly. "But it takes a lot of work. And listening to your heart, not just your fingers."

Molly, satisfied with this answer, nodded.

"Okay. I'll try," she replied and immediately yawned sweetly.

Mark smiled and adjusted her blanket and kissed her forehead.

"Good night, my little girl," he said tenderly.

"Good night, daddy," Molly muttered sleepily, closing her eyes.

Mark stood up, turned off the light, and quietly left the room. Outside the door, he paused for a moment, listening to the silence. Somewhere deep inside, he wanted to believe that the Quintans, whatever they were, really existed-if only so that his daughter's belief in them would make sense.

At this time, Molly was lying in her bed, clutching the teddy bear to her chest and falling asleep with each breath. Thoughts about the Quintans did not leave her, although from her dad's words she understood that they were not creatures, but something else - a feeling that arises when music becomes a part of you, when it begins to dance in your heart. It was something alive, but not in the literal sense.

Suddenly, as if the music itself had filled her room, an invisible light appeared around the girl, like a wave rolling onto the shore. Molly felt every note she had played that evening in front of doctor Arago continue to resonate in her body, as if the music and she were one.

And then, in that moment of silence and peace, she realized that she had seen the Quintans.