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She'd withdrawn from the conservatory just one year shy of graduating.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.
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
Maya hurried over to table 7 and began arranging the place settings with practiced efficiency. Dinner plate, salad plate, bread plate, fork, knife, spoon, all aligned perfectly. Wine glass, water glass, folded napkin. She'd done this thousands of times. She could probably do it in her sleep.
Other servers moved around her, everyone working quickly and quietly. They all knew the routine: be invisible until you're needed. Be polite but not familiar. Never, ever draw attention to yourself. The guests were the stars of the show; the staff were just props in the background.
As Maya worked, the guests began to arrive. They came in laughing and chatting, air-kissing friends they'd probably seen just yesterday. The women wore gowns that cost more than Maya's car, diamonds glittering at their throats and wrists. The men wore perfectly tailored tuxedos, their shoes polished to a mirror shine. They moved through the space like they owned it, which in a way they did. This was their world; Maya was just working in it.