**Broken Strings of Fate**
In the cramped kitchen of a rustic cottage tucked away in the quiet village of Woodcombe, nestled deep in the forests of Oxfordshire, a heated argument erupted. “Why do we need another mouth to feed?” shouted Anna, waving a frying pan of sizzling potatoes as if ready to swing it at her husband. Michael, head bowed, clutched his phone. A call had just delivered the news: his sister had passed away, leaving her ten-year-old son, Oliver, alone and homeless.
“Annie, be reasonable. He’s just a boy. He’ll help around the house, and the lads could use another playmate,” Michael murmured, stepping toward her. But Anna’s eyes flashed as she hissed, “There’s five of us stuffed in this hovel already! We share one room with the kids, and now I’m meant to tolerate your nephew? Let social services take him, or track down his father! That deadbeat ran off, and we’re left to pick up the pieces?”
“Mum and Dad won’t let Oliver go into care,” Michael muttered, glancing over his shoulder as if afraid his parents might overhear. “I haven’t even told them about Mary yet. They’ll drive us mad, but they’ll still bring the boy here.” Anna clenched her jaw, exhaling sharply. “I won’t be looking after him!” she snapped before turning back to the stove. Michael nodded silently.
“What’s with all this junk?” Michael grumbled, shoving Oliver’s belongings into the rusty boot of a battered Renault as they drove back from the city. The boy frowned, staring blankly ahead. Only when Michael carelessly grabbed the violin case did Oliver speak up, his voice quiet but firm. “Careful. It’s fragile.” Michael scoffed. “Blimey, did Mary lose the plot, teaching a lad the violin? Should’ve put him in football! No wonder you’re scrawny—too busy fiddling to eat!” Oliver stayed silent. His mum, Mary, had taught him to listen to himself, not others.
Mary had been rare—kind, gentle, with a smile that never faded, even on the darkest days. She’d worked tirelessly to give Oliver all he needed, despite their modest life. “Ready for the countryside?” Michael asked. Oliver wasn’t. Just a week ago, he’d lost his mum. Mary had been ill, hospitalised while he stayed with a neighbour. She’d called, promising everything would be fine—until the calls stopped. The neighbour, wiping tears, had told him: “It was the virus. Took our Mary.” Oliver had cried in secret, remembering her words: never show weakness to strangers.
The two-hour drive passed in a blur. Oliver dreaded this new life, and Michael’s grumbling didn’t help. “Get some rest tonight. Tomorrow, you’ll help with the hay. Summer’s busy—the boys work from dawn. It’ll keep your mind off things.” Oliver nodded absently, clutching his violin case after Michael handed it to him, safe from the boot’s jostling.
The sight of the house—a sagging, single-storey cottage with grimy windows—made Oliver shudder. He’d never visited his grandparents. Mary had kept her distance, and now he understood why. “Come on, I’ll show you your room,” Michael grunted. Oliver followed, violin in hand. The tiny room held two beds. He set his things down, only for two sun-browned boys—Oliver’s age, in shorts—to burst in.
“That’s my bed!” one barked, shoving Oliver’s bag to the floor. “You can sleep in the hall or scurry back to the city!” snarled the other, a jagged scar under his eye. Michael scratched his head. “Forgot to mention—we’ve got a camp bed for you. That’s Danny and Liam’s space.” Oliver eyed the cluttered room—no space for a camp bed. But he had no choice. He squeezed in, but sleep wouldn’t come—Michael’s snoring echoed through the thin walls, the boys’ breathing a familiar chorus.
Oliver slipped outside, sitting on a log by the river, clutching a crumpled photo of Mary. Her blue eyes radiated warmth. Tears spilled down his cheeks. “Oi, lad, why the blubbering?” came a voice. A stocky man sat beside him. “Nothing,” Oliver muttered, wiping his face. “Alright, then,” the man grinned. “Just listening to the night. I’m Fred.” “Oliver,” the boy replied, shaking his hand. Fred chatted about frogs and crickets, advised sleep, and left. Surprisingly, Oliver drifted off quickly.
At dawn, the house erupted—spoons clattered, the boys trampled his bed as they bolted for the kitchen. “Ollie, move it before they eat it all!” Michael yelled. Anna scowled from the stove. The cottage smelled of livestock and sour milk—foreign, unsettling. Oliver waited at the table. Anna slammed a plate before him. “No waiters here—help yourself!” Greasy eggs stared back. “May I have a knife?” Oliver asked softly. Laughter erupted behind him. “Look at Lord Fancy here!” jeered an old man. A frail woman stood by, eyeing Oliver coldly.
“Even in death, she surprises. God rest her,” the woman muttered, crossing herself. “Kept our grandson from us for eight years—like we’re diseased.” “Why do you talk about Mum like that?” Oliver blurted. “Because she left like we were dirt under her feet!” Michael snapped. “Don’t worry—we’ll make a man of you. You’ll help with the hay.” “I need to practise my violin. And my hands—they can’t get calloused,” Oliver whispered. The boys howled. “Girl! Worried about his nails!” The old man pounded the table. “Enough! Let him play. But first, help Anna—sun’s no place for you yet.”
Oliver forced down the eggs, recalling Mary’s words. Her name had been Elizabeth, his granddad’s—Peter. “They’re good people, just stern,” Mary had said. “I left because the village suffocated me.” She’d been a teacher, scrubbing floors evenings to feed him. Always impeccable, despite their struggles.
For an hour, Oliver played Mary’s favourite tune. The boys, darting in for water, taunted, “Girl!” He ignored them. Later, he helped Anna—scrubbed dishes, peeled potatoes, nicked his wrist until it ached. Anna shook her head. “Soft hands, just like his mum. Useless!” That night, exhausted, he sat on Danny’s bed. “Get off, girl!” Danny roared, hurling the violin at him. “No!” Oliver caught it—strings snapped. “You idiot!” Anna stormed in. “Insulting my boys?” She slapped him. “One more word, and I’ll cut out your tongue!”
Oliver fled to the river, violin in hand. Two days here were hell. He understood why Mary had run. Fred was there. “Crying again, lad?” Oliver collapsed, clutching the violin. Fred knelt. “Let me see. Poor thing. Mind if I fix it?” Oliver nodded, pointed to the house, and left.
Weeks dragged. Up at dawn, taunted, worked raw. They called Mary selfish, worthless. Oliver stayed silent, heart breaking. Then, one day, the violin reappeared with a note: a time, a place. He hid both.
That evening, sneaking out, he overheard Anna and Elizabeth: “Family disgrace! Came home with a belly, we found her a man—and she lost him too! Had a kid, blamed us!” Oliver ran.
Fred waited by the river. “Thanks for fixing it,” Oliver said. Fred smiled. “Oliver… do you know your dad?” Oliver shook his head. Mary had said he’d abandoned them. “Your mum and I… we loved each other. Ten years ago, I left for work, meant to return. But she married, had you—then disappeared. I noticed your birthmark—I’ve got the same.” He showed a spot on his wrist.
“You’re my dad?” Oliver trembled. Fred nodded. “No! Mum died because of you! Worked herself sick!” Oliver screamed, fleeing in tears.
Next morning, chaos erupted. Oliver, playing outside, faced Anna’s wrath again. “Enough! To the fields!” She yanked the violin. “Give it back!” Fred appeared at the gate. “Bullying a boy who’s lost his mother?” Anna flushed. “We’re his family! Who are you?” “His father,” Fred said firmly. “I loved Mary. Oliver’s my son.”
“Take your brat and go!” Anna spat, storming off. Fred crouched before Oliver. “I failed you both. Chased dreams, came back empty. Maybe fate’s giving me a second chance?” Oliver shrugged. “Will you teach me to hear the music?” Fred smiled. “Absolutely.”