He looked up. His eyes were no longer yellowed and cracked. They were young—impossibly young, the eyes of the seven-year-old boy who had watched his father die.
Ilona lowered her hands. The room was dark except for the gray light of a Vienna dawn pressing through the grimy window. The rug was covered in debris. Elias sat on the floor, cradling the neck of the Guarneri like a scepter. Cantabile 4-- Crack
"Music," he said.
And he saw himself.