My sister is a genius singer and me, a worthless person without talent

A week and a half has passed since that day, and in that time, nothing really changed.

When Maria arrived with her renewed appearance, I could feel many people murmuring behind our backs. I even suspect it was a hot topic of conversation—for how long? Two days? I don't know.

Of course, it wasn't because she looked strange, but because the strange girl had blossomed into something more beautiful. But soon, any novelty caused by her transformation faded, and we became invisible again. Still, I felt like someone would occasionally glance at her.

It was ridiculous that with just a few simple adjustments, my sister had become so pretty. But I had to consider that, apparently, she inherited most of the good genes from our parents.

Though, as many say, you shouldn't complain about God's gifts.

Still, maintaining this new status quo was absolute torture—waking up even earlier to fix up my sister while she drowsily stumbled around. Her exterior had been partially fixed, but her attitude toward people remained distant, strange, like an alien stranded on an unfamiliar planet.

Over the course of the week, it seemed like many people had forgotten about the scandal of the special exam, which now felt like a distant memory. However, it was more than likely that most had already gotten to work, scheming in secret—which made perfect sense.

It's also worth noting that an apparent sense of normalcy had settled into Class 1-A. Everyone had their own little groups. There was us and Emilia—the outcasts (just us). And if I had to mention any group in particular, there was Ana Abantino and Alex Nowak, who seemed to live in a different dimension altogether.

Maria had classes in Diction and Articulation, Music Theory, Choral Practice, Performance, Language and Rhythm, Lyric Analysis, and a bunch of other things I don't remember—things I felt most students had been studying since childhood, though there's always a clueless one.

Honestly, I never got the impression she paid much attention, except in sporadic moments.

Also worth mentioning is that Ms. Valdez, the teacher from the second day, was in charge of three specialized subjects: Introduction to Singing, Diction and Articulation, and Performance.

I always saw her slightly annoyed, maybe irritated—perhaps she wasn't paid enough?

Either way, I'd already gotten used to her ominous presence.

In that regard, it seemed normal to assume we were settling into our new life.

"Hey, what if we buy something that doesn't come in a packet this time?"

Emilia was restless and said this to ease the tension.

She said "tension" because, for her, this place was new—but not necessarily pleasant.

We—me, my sister, and her—were in the Central Market, a commercial zone that used to be the epicenter of the area's problems. Now, with recent official intervention, I could say it was a little calmer. It was where I bought food and other necessities when the occasion arose—always had been, or at least as far back as I could remember.

It stretched across five blocks above ground, and who knows how many more below, through tunnels, sublevels, and semi-hidden passages only locals knew how to navigate. From above, for those privileged enough to have a view from their overcrowded apartment buildings, it looked like a patch of faded tarps and half-torn advertisements. From the inside, it was a hive—hot, cramped, noisy, and full of life.

Every alley was an improvised commerce corridor. The roofs were plastic sheets stretched between buildings, held up with ropes, pipes, or structures made from broken chair parts. Above, the steel beams of collapsed bridges crossed like the ribs of an urban beast. Below, a tangle of broken pipes leaked warm steam and dubious smells, mixing with an at least vaguely metallic, vaporous scent.

A couple of years ago, there had been problems—the market had begun expanding uncontrollably, spilling into the surrounding streets and buildings. That had since been mitigated, and now it was confined within an imaginary cube.

The stalls didn't have display cases—just crates, folding tables, and dirty rugs where merchandise was piled up like in an urgent auction: blemished but edible vegetables, dried fish that looked like fossils, electronics without casings, and Chinese toys that played distorted songs.

Then there were the people. Saying there were too many would be an understatement—though, with the new official regulations, walking around felt a little easier than before.

Some ad screens were still on, showing commercials for products no one here could afford. One, in particular, showed a flawless actress eating sushi wrapped in silk.

Before, there had been underground gambling, unregistered goods, meat whose origin was never disclosed. Now, those shady businesses had scattered across different points in the district. But if you looked hard enough and knew who to ask, you'd realize some were still operating—hidden right where we stood.

The noise was less overwhelming now. I was grateful for that.

But no matter how I, as a local, perceived it, to Emilia, this place was Dante's seventh circle of hell.

"What do you mean by 'not in a packet'?" I asked, puzzled.

"I mean real food, Lucas. Not orange powder or instant meals. Last time, you forced me to eat that—me!"

"Like a cow? That's a little expensive."

"Like a carrot. Is that a carrot?" She pointed cautiously, right after finishing her sentence.

"It's kinda black."

She had promised to cook this time—in fact, I'd forced her to, since she kept complaining about my cooking.

Which led to the next issue.

"Why do you keep coming to our house?" I asked while slinging a suspicious bag of onions over my shoulder.

"You want me to leave you alone?"

"No. Besides, I wouldn't be alone. But I want to understand why someone like you comes down from the clean residential district to a place like this. I thought it'd be a one-night thing."

She was silent for a second. Then she said it like it was obvious.

"Because no one there needs me to be around. Here, they do."

I didn't know what to say. Her tone was strange—somewhere between a joke and a melancholic admission of her true feelings.

"This one will do," she said, closing the conversation.

It was a tough subject. Either way, I preferred not to dwell on it. So we headed down the path that led home.

And that was the plan—at least, until a somewhat familiar voice (only to me) interrupted us.

"Hey, kid… Vilcanoba!"

I turned, my face tired, and it must have shown because the man responded with a forced, raspy laugh. He was an old guy, around 45, his face covered in marks—small, permanent bruises from teenage acne, maybe, and prolonged sun exposure. A long time ago, I'd heard he came from the countryside, that he'd moved to the city because one day he got tired of his parents, his rural life, and just ran away from home.

Not that it mattered.

"What's up, Mr. Benson? You know I don't have money to spend on anything but food… Oh, hey, Matt."

Matt, Mr. Benson's son, raised his hand in greeting.

"Lucas, long time no see."

Mr. Benson was known for selling tech junk—or basically anything remotely valuable that had been "lying around." He also ran a repair service for just about anything you could think of, managed by him and his eldest son, 23, who helped out. They advertised with a big neon green sign ("Sales & Repairs"), now turned off in the daylight. The place reeked of grease and oil, stained black from the usual grime of such shops, with disassembled tech scattered across every corner and the counter.

"Yeah, but look—I got the new phone from that brand you like. Took a lot of effort to get it, you know how much I had to run—" He cut himself off when he noticed I wasn't alone. "—I mean, how much I had to haggle to get a good price. Anyway, since I'm friends with your dad, I can give you a little discount."

"No need, Mr. Benson. Honestly, I barely have any cash on me. Believe me, if I did, I'd buy it."

Mr. Benson laughed. "Hahaha, I believe you, kid… By the way, how's the family? Heard anything from your parents?"

"Nothing at all. Not that I've made any effort to find them."

"Damn, kid, you're in a tough spot. Reminds me of me when I ran away from the mountains because my parents wanted to marry me off to some hideous girl, the daughter of a landowner… Hah! No way. So I came here, and you wouldn't believe the misadventures I had. Though I didn't have a sister, so you've got it worse."

"I appreciate the sympathy, sir."

I'd known him since I was little. My dad used to chat with him while I played with little gadgets scattered around, pretending they were robots. I didn't know how they'd met, but something told me it had to do with his so-called "misadventures."

"Maria, sorry for not greeting you first. Almost didn't recognize you with that new look. Glad your idiot brother finally realized it's not good for a young lady to go around looking unkempt."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Benson," Maria replied.

To us, he was like a nosy but reliable uncle.

"And you, miss?"

"Oh, good afternoon, sir. I'm their classmate."

I noticed Emilia was slightly repulsed by him, so I discreetly nudged her shoulder to encourage the greeting.

"Classmate? Oh, so Maria's back in high school? Good, I thought she'd become one of those shut-ins who mooch off their family and only ask for takeout."

At that moment, I felt my sister bump my shoulder. She swayed side to side, as if hearing something she really liked. No, really—that's her lethargic way of reacting when she hears an irresistible sound.

For me, it was just background noise. I didn't have the hearing to pick out anything specific in all that chatter—unless it was something very faint.

I looked at Mr. Benson's son, Matt—a scrawny guy with a punk look and dyed hair. Like Maria, he was in a trance, listening to something through his over-ear headphones while soldering wires onto an unknown circuit. That's when I realized the sound—a brief, thin noise—was leaking through, reaching Maria's ears.

What was she hearing? Death metal? Post-punk? Progressive rock?

Maria didn't usually distinguish between genres—meaning she didn't care where it came from. Whether it was a Russian, Armenian, Slovak, Chinese, or Japanese band, if the music interested her, she'd consume it all. That's where her vast knowledge of music came from, even the most obscure genres or bands lost to time, their only remnants being cassettes in abandoned attics. In that sense, she was a true collector of knowledge.

So it wasn't unusual for me to ask around different stalls in the Central Market for these relics to satisfy my sister's whims. Some pseudo-stores specialized in old cassettes, floppy disks, or slightly more modern CDs—physical music with content that was, at the very least, curious. But what was uncommon was finding something that caught Maria's attention in ordinary places—after all, most people listened to the same mainstream music every day.

"Uh, Mr. Benson, sorry to bother you… but could my sister listen to what's playing in your son's headphones? She's really curious."

"Oh, my son? Sure."

Without hesitation, he yanked the wireless headphones off and handed them to Maria, who eagerly put them on.

"Hey, those are mine!"

"Let her listen, son. Adults shouldn't be selfish with kids."

Maria closed her eyes. Though she didn't move a muscle—no fleeting expression or physical reaction—I knew this was how she acted when she found something she truly loved. She closed her eyes to merge with the music, her brain operating at an unimaginable speed as it deciphered every hidden secret in the melody.

"Hey, Lucas." Maria suddenly spoke but kept her eyes closed, still immersed in that fictional world. "I want this."

"Saying 'I want this' makes you sound like a brat… Well, whatever." I sighed and turned to Matt, Mr. Benson's son, who had been like an older brother to me during my childhood and teenage years—the one who introduced me to heavy metal and hard rock.

"Matt, what's the song called?"

"Uh, no idea, Luc." He rubbed the back of his neck, a habit when he didn't know how to answer. "Found it on a tape lying around at Henry's bar. Almost got stepped on and destroyed. I asked if it was his, but he said he'd never seen it before, so I took it home. Now it's here."

"Must be really good."

"Good? That's an understatement. Honestly, I've never heard anything like it. Though I'm not even sure what it is—kinda like pop-opera, but it feels more opera than pop."

So some kind of classical crossover.

"Didn't think you'd like that kind of thing."

"Me neither. But this one's special—maybe it's the singer's voice."

"Who's the singer?" Maria suddenly asked, her eyes almost glowing brighter than the sun.

"Unknown. No intro, no name mentioned. The tape didn't have anything written on it either."

So we had a mystery on our hands.

"Here." Matt handed me the tape. "Already digitized it. Don't need it anymore."

"Wouldn't it be easier to just send me the file?"

"Hey, thought you liked collecting this kind of stuff."

I took the tape while Maria returned the headphones. The whole time, I could feel the bag of vegetables growing heavier by the minute.