From the first time Lydia caught a glimpse of that Russian girl gliding past her in the concert hall corridor, she felt something inside her begin to crack.
Yes, crack.
Olga Metkina - her golden hair smooth like silk woven from spring sunlight, her bright eyes holding an entire galaxy - was drawing her bow with careful precision. Her lips were slightly parted, as if humming a melody only she could hear. Every gesture, every angle of her face, Lydia could not deny it, Olga looked just like Sharon twenty years ago, the way Lydia could only imagine her through faded photographs in their old apartment.
This feeling… wasn’t right. But it wasn’t wrong either.
She hadn’t chosen Olga for the orchestra just because of her talent. Not just on impulse. Not just because of what people whispered behind her back. At this moment, Lydia wasn’t sure anymore - what had drawn her toward Olga? Was it desire or was it obsession?
Lydia suddenly recalled this morning’s breakfast - Sharon smiling at her over a cup of tea. Sharon’s hair had grown much shorter, fine lines gently etching the corners of her eyes. But she was still Sharon, the woman Lydia had loved, betrayed, returned to, and begged for forgiveness. So why was Lydia drawn to Olga this way?
No, it wasn’t just attraction. It was fear. It was tormenting. It was a ghost of the past creeping into the present.
The rehearsal ended. Olga turned her head and met Lydia’s gaze. Something flickered in the young woman’s eyes, a recognition. An acceptance. A game that Olga had perhaps already foreseen. She tilted her head, her long hair brushing over her shoulder, a faint smile playing on her lips.
Lydia shuddered.
Did she really want this? Or was she simply chasing a younger version of Sharon, a Sharon untouched by time, a Sharon who had yet to look at her with eyes full of old wounds? If so… then what role was Olga playing in this performance?
Perhaps the most terrifying thing wasn’t that Lydia was trying to reclaim the past. It was that the past had returned to claim her - in the form of a girl with Sharon’s eyes, Sharon’s hands, and Sharon’s smile, but who was not Sharon.
Never Sharon.
Lydia knew she should go home. Sharon was waiting. But she couldn’t leave just yet.
Olga was still there, adjusting her cello bow, though her gaze flicked up now and then, just enough for Lydia to know she was aware of her presence. Lydia tightened her grip on her handbag, inhaling deeply.
_ Play that passage again.
Her voice came out dry, clipped. But Olga didn’t react immediately. She tilted her head, her faint smile widening slightly, as if she had just heard something amusing. Then she placed her bow against the strings and drew out a single, deliberate note, quiet, lingering.
Lydia felt a pulse at her temple.
She closed her eyes. Told herself this wasn’t Sharon.
Not Sharon.
But if she held onto this gaze just a little longer, if she allowed herself to listen just a little more… Perhaps she could believe in the illusion.
_ What do you see when you hear me play, Lydia?
Olga’s voice was soft, not quite provocative, yet not entirely innocent either.
Lydia opened her eyes.
The light in the rehearsal room cast a glow over Olga’s hair, highlighting the features Lydia knew too well. The young woman tilted her head, slowly, as if trying to guess what Lydia’s answer would be.
Lydia frozen.
A simple question, yet no simple answer could suffice.
What did she see?
She saw Sharon, twenty years ago, when they were still ablaze with passion, before the fractures began to show.
She saw herself, like a madwoman, pushing into an endless cycle with no escape.
She saw her own nightmare, trapped between past and present, between what she had lost and what she was trying to replace.
Lydia parted her lips, but said nothing. And Olga chuckled softly, as if she had already predicted this silence. Then she lowered her head and resumed playing the unfinished piece.
Lydia remained standing, like a ghost in her own life. Olga’s violin seeped into her thoughts, each note twisting through her mind, pulling her back to a time when Sharon was young, carefree, when she still looked at Lydia with eyes full of trust and love.
That gaze was gone now. But in Olga, Lydia saw something disturbingly familiar.
_ I’ve finished, maestro.
Olga’s voice brought Lydia back to the present. She looked at the young woman before her, still that faint smile, still those eyes. Some part of Lydia wanted to believe she was imagining things, that this was all coincidence. But she knew better than anyone, there was no such thing as coincidence.
_ When did you learn this piece?
Lydia asked, keeping her voice steady. Olga only shrugged, then answered casually:
_ I could say I spent my childhood practicing, but honestly… I think I’m just playing by instinct.
A harmless response.
But to Lydia, it was a blade slicing straight into memory.
Don’t think too much, Lydia. I just play by instinct.
Sharon had said the same thing once.
Lydia averted her gaze, unwilling to meet Olga’s eyes a second longer.
_ Good.
She murmured, turning to leave. But she didn’t hear the sound of her own footsteps in the rehearsal room.
Only a quiet chuckle behind her, distant, as if echoing from another realm. A sound that sent a chill down her spine. Just like that feeling back in Ucayali.
But this time, Lydia didn’t dare look back.
Lydia returned home, unlocking the door to their Berlin apartment. The kitchen light was still on, casting its familiar warm glow. The faint scent of peppermint tea lingered in the air, an unmistakable sign - Sharon was waiting for her.
And just as expected, there she was, sitting at the wooden table, a cup of tea in hand, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched Lydia step inside.
_ You’re late.
Sharon’s voice wasn’t exactly reproachful, but it was enough to make Lydia pause briefly before setting her bag down.
_ Rehearsal ran late.
Lydia answered curtly, unwrapping her scarf, trying to sound nonchalant. But Sharon merely smiled, setting her cup down on its saucer.
_ Late rehearsal, or did you linger?
Lydia didn’t reply immediately. A chill ran down her spine. Sharon wasn’t looking at her accusingly, but Lydia knew better - Sharon knew.
_ You came home earlier, didn’t you?
Lydia stepped forward slowly, pulling out a chair and sitting across from Sharon. Out of habit, Sharon tilted her head slightly, pouring more tea into Lydia’s cup.
_ Mm. Petra got out of school early.
A simple, seemingly innocent answer. But to Lydia, it was sharper than an accusation.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft ticking of the clock. Sharon remained composed, still the gentle wife the world believed Lydia was lucky to have. But Lydia knew, behind that calmness lay something deeper, sharper, more dangerous. She licked her lips, suddenly aware of how dry her throat had become.
_ Olga is very talented.
Sharon nodded, unsurprised.
_ Of course she is. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have chosen her.
Lydia looked at Sharon. The words rang like an absolute truth.
It wasn’t Lydia who had chosen Olga.
It was Sharon.
Lydia’s chest tightened.
Only now did she realize how tightly she had been gripping the armrest of the chair. Sharon had known all along. Had seen what even Lydia herself had yet to recognize. Had been the one to bring Olga into her orbit.
Lydia closed her eyes briefly. She wasn’t sure what she felt more, panic, or the disturbing thrill of realizing she had once again fallen into a game Sharon had already set in motion.
Sharon was still smiling, that same gentle, unassuming smile, as if nothing was amiss. But Lydia knew better than anyone that Sharon’s kindness had never been just kindness.
_ Lydia.
Her name, spoken softly, yet the deliberate way Sharon shaped each syllable in that distinctly German accent made Lydia feel as though she had just stepped into a chess match where the opening move had already been made.
_ Where do you think this is going?
Lydia met her gaze, lips pressing together.
_ What do you mean?
Sharon let out a quiet chuckle, tilting her head as if pondering something.
_ You and Olga.
A beat of silence. Lydia tensed slightly but forced herself to relax.
_ There’s nothing.
Sharon nodded, as if Lydia had just stated the obvious. She lifted her teacup again, taking a slow sip before setting it down.
_ Good. Because you know, people have already whispered enough about the Accordion Fellowship. It would be a shame if there were more rumors, this time, within our own orchestra.
Lydia inhaled deeply. Sharon didn’t need to spell it out. She understood. The Berlin Philharmonic was not like other places. This was not somewhere she could indulge in fleeting impulses without consequences.
Sharon leaned forward slightly, her fingers brushing against Lydia’s hand.
A fleeting touch. Light, almost imperceptible.
But it froze Lydia in place.
_ We both want what’s best for the orchestra. And for you, Tár.
_ Yes.
Lydia answered quietly, unsure if she was affirming it to Sharon - or to herself.
Sharon studied her for a moment, her eyes reflecting something sharp beneath their warmth.
_ Then don’t let anyone misunderstand. Olga is a brilliant musician. You are a great conductor. Keep everything in its rightful place.
Lydia swallowed.
Sharon didn’t need to say anything more. The message was clear.
Don’t fall into the trap you think you’re setting.
Lydia turned slightly, watching her wife. She could see the serenity in Sharon’s expression, a serenity carefully calculated.
Yes. Sharon was the one who had chosen Olga for the orchestra. Not Lydia.
And perhaps, from the very beginning, Lydia had never truly been in control of this game.
Lydia couldn’t sleep.
She lay in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, her breaths uneven as if something heavy was pressing against her chest. Beside her, Sharon was already asleep, her breathing steady.
Or at least, Lydia thought she was asleep.
She turned, looking at Sharon’s golden hair under the dim glow of the bedside lamp. For a split second, the image overlapped with another face, similar in length, but a lighter shade of brown, the same sharpness in her gaze, but younger. And the way she smiled…
Lydia shut her eyes tight, cursing herself.
No.
This wasn’t the first time she had been haunted by her obsessions, but never had they been this clear.
Olga wasn’t Sharon.
Olga was just Olga.
But…
Had Sharon orchestrated this all along?
Lydia pushed back the covers and stepped out of bed, moving soundlessly through the apartment. Her feet led her to the study. She reached for an old recording, Das Rheingold, the opening, the deep, murky rumble of the double basses.
Something familiar. Something grounding. But this time, it didn’t bring her comfort.
Instead, she remembered the way Olga had looked at her while playing, that quiet, knowing smile as if she understood something Lydia wasn’t yet ready to admit.
The days that followed, Lydia began noticing small shifts in the trajectory she had once believed she controlled.
She buried herself in work. The orchestra was preparing for Mahler’s Fifth, rehearsals stretched for hours, intense, exhausting, consuming. But just when Lydia thought she had lost herself completely in the music, a single glance from the violin section pulled her right back out.
Olga Metkina.
She wasn’t always watching Lydia. Sometimes, Lydia caught her focused on the sheet music, exchanging quiet remarks with her colleagues. But there were moments, when Lydia turned her head too fast, when her guard was down, she would see Olga looking at her. Not with the typical attentiveness of a musician watching their conductor, but with something deeper. Sharper. A gaze that nearly challenged her.
And the worst part was that Lydia couldn’t ignore it.
Something was starting to go… wrong.
Once, during rehearsal, Lydia snapped when a phrasing wasn’t played as she wanted. She cut the orchestra off mid-bar, turned to the strings, and caught Olga watching her, not with confusion, not with nervousness like the others, but with a fleeting smile.
Lydia’s chest tightened.
_ From the top.
Her voice cut through the air, sharper than a blade, sending a ripple of tension through the orchestra as everyone straightened.
Except for Olga.
She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t blinked. Hadn’t dropped that damn expression.
After rehearsal, Lydia retreated to her office, shutting the door behind her. She sat down, pressing her hands to her face, feeling her pulse hammering against her ribs.
She didn’t want to admit it. But she knew she was trapped. And Sharon had known it before she had.
Lydia stood on the podium, baton raised, ready to carve the next movement into existence. The air in the rehearsal hall was taut, waiting for her signal. But in that brief moment, as she scanned the string section, she wasn’t in the Berlin Philharmonic anymore.
She saw Sharon.
Not the Sharon of now, but Sharon at thirty, when they first met. Long, wavy curls, sharp eyes, fingers gliding over strings with effortless confidence…
But no. Lydia blinked hard, snapping herself back to the present. No, that wasn’t Sharon.
She focused, and there she was… Olga, sitting in the exact same way, with the exact same piercing gaze, the same tilt of the chin, the same poised fingers, the same effortless arrogance that had once mesmerized Lydia before.
Lydia’s mind went blank.
One second. Two. Half a minute passed, and she had yet to give the cue. The silence in the hall thickened. The orchestra waited, unsure, their eyes flickering between their conductor and the Russian cellist who had caught her unwavering stare.
Lydia was the only one unaware of what the entire room had already seen.
She gripped the baton tighter, inhaled sharply, and forced herself back into reality.
_ Again.
The command came cold, authoritative.
But the ghost of the past refused to dissipate. Because every time Olga drew her bow, Lydia saw Sharon’s hands moving in perfect sync with the notes, the memory bleeding into the present, distorting everything.
The first time she saw Sharon play, she had been younger, hungrier, desperate to hold onto something, anything, that she could claim as her own.
Sharon had smiled at her, then. Not the soft, patient smile of a wife waiting at home, but the knowing, razor - sharp smirk of a concertmaster who had seen right through her from the very beginning.
Lydia stood frozen on the podium. Olga was smiling now too - just barely, but Lydia saw it.
She drove home in silence, hands gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white. The music playing in the car did nothing to quiet the storm in her head.
Sharon Goodnow.
Olga Metkina.
Two shadows folding over each other like clashing harmonies, like unresolved dissonance in an overture winding toward an inevitable conclusion.
Lydia remembered the first time Sharon had played the Moonlight Sonata in front of her, the effortless way her wrist lifted the bow, how every note poured out as if it had belonged to her alone.
Then she remembered the first time she saw Olga play.
It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.
Different instruments, different musicians, different lifetimes.
And yet.
And yet.
The apartment door creaked open, and Lydia stepped inside - slowly, hesitantly, as if something in the darkness was waiting to lunge at her.
But there was nothing. Only Sharon, as always, makes herself a cup of warm tea.
The scent of tea drifted toward Lydia the moment she stepped in. Suddenly, she remembered a night nearly ten years ago, when they had first met. Sharon had stood just like this, tilting her head slightly as Lydia entered the room, her eyes glinting with an understanding deeper than anyone else’s.
Lydia swallowed hard at the memory.
_ Late again.
Sharon's words were a greeting, a familiar refrain, but Lydia didn’t answer. She simply stood there, watching her wife. She saw Sharon as she was now, her curls cut shorter, the marks of time etched into her features. But she also saw Sharon from the past, thirty years old, radiant, dangerous.
And then, she saw Olga.
Suddenly, the two figures blurred together, spinning in her mind, dizzying her. Lydia shut her eyes, willing the illusion away. But it didn’t leave. It only sank deeper, embedding itself into her thoughts like a melody looping endlessly, refusing to resolve.
The kitchen remained silent, save for the soft clinking of a spoon stirring peppermint tea. The ripples spread across the surface of the liquid. Lydia stood across from Sharon, her fingers still clenched around the handle of her bag, unmoving. Sharon looked up at her and repeated:
_ I said, late again.
Lydia swallowed dryly, uncertain of what to say. The déjà vu lingered, threading itself into the gaps of her consciousness. Sharon tilted her head, her eyes gleaming under the kitchen lights.
_ Was rehearsal alright?
Lydia parted her lips, but no words came. Not that Sharon needed an answer. She took a sip of tea and set her cup down gently.
_ You know, Lydia… sometimes, you remind me of how you got here in the first place.
Lydia tensed, stretched taut like a violin string wound too tight.
_ What do you mean?
_ Oh, nothing. I just wonder… if it weren’t for me, would you even be here today?
The air thickened. Lydia gripped her bag tighter, as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.
_ Sharon-...
_ The way you look at her reminds me of how you used to look at me. It’s almost nostalgic.
_ Don’t be ridiculous.
Lydia shot back the retort, but her voice lacked the weight it needed. That only made Sharon raise an eyebrow, as if she had heard Lydia say the same thing a hundred times before.
_ Really?
Lydia wanted to scoff, to tell Sharon she was imagining things. But she couldn’t. Because Lydia herself could no longer tell the difference.
She had thought she was in control. She had thought Olga was nothing more than a talented young musician. But why, when she looked at the girl, did she see a different figure, a different smile, a past she had convinced herself she had left behind?
Sharon held Lydia’s gaze for a long moment before speaking again, slow and deliberate:
_ It’s a shame, really. You can’t keep running from your own ghost.
A chill ran down Lydia’s spine.
Because at that moment, she could no longer tell if the woman standing before her was Sharon - or merely the specter of her own conscience, passing judgment.
The storm did not come all at once.
Because before everything collapsed, there was a moment of stillness - the eye of the hurricane, where Lydia believed she still had control.
Olga Metkina had become the orchestra’s centerpiece. Not just because of her talent, but because of the way Lydia looked at her. Whispered conversations in the hallways, fleeting glances exchanged between musicians, unfinished sentences trailing into silence when Lydia entered the room. No one said it outright, but she could feel it.
A glance between colleagues. A phrase left hanging, like a suspended note in an unresolved chord.
Sharon had noticed long before anyone else. And she had to act before it was too late.
_ Lydia.
Sharon’s voice cut through the quiet of a late-night dinner, her concertmaster’s composure razor-sharp.
_ The orchestra is talking about you and Olga.
Lydia set her wine glass down, leaning back in her chair, feigning indifference.
_ You’ve noticed, haven’t you? They’re always talking about someone. But is it really worth your-...
_ But this time, they’re talking about you, Tár. And that concerns me.
She held Lydia’s gaze, unwavering.
_ Sometimes I wonder… Do you see her for who she is? Or do you only see me, twenty years ago?
Lydia let out a short, cold laugh.
_ Sharon, I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal out of this. Olga Metkina is a gifted artist. Am I not allowed to admire her talent without baseless insinuations?
Silence. Then, the sharp clink of metal against porcelain as Sharon set her utensils down, deliberately loud enough to make Lydia flinch. She knew what it meant. It was Sharon’s way of telling her: Tell me the truth.
And then, the words that followed wrapped around Lydia’s throat like a noose.
_ Do you remember Krista Taylor?
_ Sharon, that has nothing to do with this.
_ Are you sure?
Sharon tilted her head.
_ A young, talented student. A bright future ahead of her. Pulled into your orbit, only to be discarded when she no longer fits…
Sharon’s voice was quiet, almost clinical.
_ Now, it’s Olga.
Krista Taylor had once been the conductor’s obsession, a flickering flame amidst the darkness of the woods. And now, her name lingered in Lydia’s mind like an unshakable ghost.
And Sharon Goodnow knew this better than anyone.
Now, she wielded it like a checkmate in this slow, inevitable endgame.
The thought alone made Lydia’s breath hitch. She pushed back her chair, desperate to escape this suffocating conversation. But she wouldn’t leave without one last word.
_ You’re overthinking this, Sharon.
_ And you’re thinking too little.
Sharon leaned back, arms crossed, watching as Lydia’s silhouette vanished into the dim glow of the kitchen lights.
_ Lydia, you’re playing a dangerous game. And this time, I don’t think you’ll be able to control it.
Lydia didn’t respond. Because deep down, she knew Sharon was right.
But she couldn’t stop. She still wanted to bet on this game. She thought of Olga, bowing her violin with fervor, and wondered if, tomorrow at rehearsal, the Russian muse would look at her again - with those piercing blue eyes.
Lost in the trance of it all, Lydia failed to recognize the weight of the moment - the final warning before the walls came crashing down.
Lydia wandered through the streets of Berlin, her footsteps aimless amid the restless tide of people. No one turned to look at her now, no one recognized the once-revered maestro of one of the world’s greatest orchestras. The eyes that had once shone with admiration were indifferent now, uninterested, unmoved as she passed.
She had stood at the very pinnacle of the classical music world, a career others could only dream of. But then came the scandal - Krista Taylor’s suicide, the leaked emails, the unraveling of Lydia Tár. The myth had been stripped away, and what remained was just a woman, abandoned and disgraced. The people who once idolized her had become strangers. The doors that once swung open for her had slammed shut.
No one called her Maestro anymore.
When Lydia returned home, the apartment was as cold and empty as a forgotten ruin. The framed accolades on the walls, the scattered sheet music - all of it felt like remnants of a dream long since shattered.
On the table sat a cup of tea, long gone cold, in the place where Sharon used to sit. For a decade, she had been Lydia’s home - waiting for her after rehearsals, pouring tea with quiet patience, listening as Lydia spoke of symphonies, of ambition, of her relentless need to control every note that existed in the world.
But Lydia had never truly listened to Sharon.
And now, all she had left were two words: if only.
If only she had never abused her power. If only she had cherished Sharon instead of chasing shadows to fill the emptiness inside her. If only she hadn’t turned her life into a game of chess she kept playing, never realizing she was already losing.
But it was too late. What good was regret now?
She sank into Sharon’s old chair, picked up the cold teacup, and let the chill seep into her hands before closing her eyes.
The symphony of her life had ended. But it didn't end with a standing ovation. Only a long, aching silence, an unresolved octave hanging in the air.