"What are you doing?" Nina asked.
The first time Ivy Jones saw Nina North, Nina was practicing alone in a locked practice room at the arts conservatory. The autumn light cut through high windows, illuminating dust motes like slow snow. Nina's bow moved with surgical precision—Bach, unaccompanied. No vibrato. No waste.
Would you like a continuation in this tone, or a different angle (e.g., poetic, suspenseful, or journal-entry style)?