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

We arrived home after a 10-minute brisk march through alleyways and secret shortcuts, across urban bridges connecting buildings, until we finally reached the surface and my humble abode.

I didn't want to say it—in case it made me sound paranoid—but based on my understanding, it wasn't far-fetched to think it. I could feel it, the sensation that someone was following us. And it wasn't a new feeling; it was one that had been growing ever since Emilia started frequenting our home. In the Central Market, on the streets—like eyes watching me from every unimaginable angle, like some kind of omnipresent cosmic being.

When we entered, I watched as Emilia carelessly dropped her things in a corner of the living room. I closed the door, and any semblance of a threat vanished.

Of course, that feeling wasn't healthy, so I had to do something about it—test my hypotheses.

Immediately, she snatched the grocery bag from me and, as if this were her house and I the guest, marched into the kitchen to prepare what she called "real food." I prayed her pot would burn so I could laugh at her efforts after she'd mocked my cooking.

By now, this had become somewhat routine—watching her walk around, rummaging through drawers, occasionally cleaning spots she disliked, then lounging on that vinyl armchair like it was her personal throne. She acted like the owner, as if she'd been living here with me the entire time.

She felt like just another tenant, and little by little, I was learning to accept her as part of this new life.

"So, just like with makeup, you're a 'beginner' at cooking?"

"I can read and follow a recipe. That's enough to be the most qualified among all of you. Besides, my butler taught me a thing or two."

"I thought you said you had a maid who cleaned your house every other day?"

"Yeah, well, I also have a butler."

"Shut up."

Maria settled into an armchair, lifted her legs, and hugged them while resting her head on her knees. I couldn't see her face—she had an old pair of headphones on and started listening to the cassette on an ancient player we used for this very purpose.

Meanwhile, Emilia silently rolled up her sleeves. She didn't ask where the utensils were—instead, she pulled out a knife from a sheath she'd brought from home. The metal gleamed, almost with a slightly darkened hue, like a diamond, with Japanese characters inscribed on the handle.

First, the eggplants. She sliced them thinly, almost into coins. Then the zucchini, same treatment. The peppers were deveined and cut into strips.

The onion and garlic were peeled without complaint, though I noticed her eyes watering.

She turned on the stove. The flame flickered dangerously, sputtering in small intervals as if it couldn't be bothered to stay lit before flaring up again.

She poured olive oil—a decent one, brought from her place—and let the garlic dance in the pan.

She sautéed the onion until it turned translucent and sweet. Then came the peppers, sizzling on contact. Next, the zucchini, and finally, the drained eggplants soaked up the oil.

When everything was soft and golden, she added the chopped tomatoes and a pinch of dried oregano from a mysterious jar (miraculously free of mold). She covered the pot, lowered the heat, and let it simmer patiently.

Meanwhile, she sliced stale bread, toasted it in the old pan, and rubbed it with raw garlic.

Watching her, slightly mesmerized, she reminded me of a mother—but I pushed the intrusive thought away.

"What are you making?"

"Ratatouille."

"Isn't that the rat from a movie?"

"Well, it's also a real dish. Not packaged junk—that'll kill you in the long run."

"Well, same as the air, so if I want to eat it, it shouldn't be a problem."

"What kind of logic is that?" We weren't making eye contact—she was focused on the pan—but I felt a slight chill. Clearly, she didn't appreciate my joke. "Besides, this has more nutrients than anything you've ever eaten in your life."

In the pan, the layers of vegetables bubbled slowly.

"No meat?" Maria's voice startled us both—we hadn't heard her approach. She had emerged from her own little world and was now staring intently at the pan.

"It doesn't need it. The vegetables are well-cooked, and the onion is sweet. Plus, there's bread."

"There's no budget for meat." It was a harsh truth, and Emilia struggled to say it.

"Ugh, don't worry, Mary. Next time, I'll bring a Wagyu cut just for you."

"Really? I don't believe you… Wait, seriously? You'd do that for me?" She was drooling—not metaphorically. Deep down, so was I.

I served the food on the two different plates my sister and I usually used—both ceramic: one plain white, the other purple with star patterns that glowed at night. Then, I served the intruder on a fine porcelain plate she'd brought days ago and carelessly left on a corner of the kitchen shelf. I was afraid to even touch that spot—if it broke, it'd probably mean a lifetime of debt, or so it seemed.

We didn't sit at the mahogany table as we used to in the old days. Instead, we went to the living room. I turned on the TV (which only got the news), and each of us instinctively went to our designated armchairs.

"Not bad." I let the flavors linger in my mouth, trying to capture each one. I didn't want to admit it, but it was good. "I'm surprised a rich girl knows how to cook."

"I'm surprised someone who lives alone doesn't know how to do it properly."

"I have other hobbies."

"It tastes like home." Maria said it softly, almost inaudibly, her words slipping into our conversation like an intangible ghost passing through a wall.

"That's what I was going for. Thank you, Mary. Now that I'm here, this guy won't force you to eat processed junk anymore." She began stroking Maria's hair.

There was no doubt—in the short span of a week and a half, this girl had won my sister's affection.

As the conversation faded, drowned out by the noise of the TV, all I could hear was the sound of my own jaw chewing, my focus entirely on the food.

"I don't like this." Emilia stood up abruptly and turned off the TV. Before she did, I caught a glimpse of a tragic news report about a fire on the other side of the city.

"Hey, I was watching that!"

"You're not fooling anyone. You were just sitting there like an idiot with your head down in your plate."

"No need to be so rude." Did I really look that bad?

Apparently, she didn't like watching such things while eating. I agreed—it wasn't right to casually watch tragedies while peacefully eating. Probably bad for the heart, too.

"How about we do something more contemplative… Can I borrow it?" Maria nodded at Emilia's request and placed the cassette in a larger player beneath the TV—just as old. She'd been eyeing it since she arrived, clearly sharing Maria's curiosity about that tape.

She held the device. The cassette was matte black with a dusty central window, but it wasn't particularly worn. Inside, the reels turned slowly when shaken. There were no clues as to who it belonged to.

"Hey, help me with this. I can't find… God, why do you have such ancient things?"

"If it weren't ancient, you wouldn't be able to play a cassette, genius."

The CRT TV was a 21-inch screen—thick, dirty gray, with a bulging frame and the brand name barely legible from years of wear. It had RCA inputs on the back: red, white, and yellow, barely visible.

Beneath the TV stand was a stereo cassette deck—a Technics RS-BX501. Rectangular, with a flip-down front panel, mechanical buttons that clicked when pressed, and an RCA auxiliary audio output in the back.

I connected a 3.5mm-to-RCA cable from the deck's headphone jack to the TV's audio input.

The TV had an AV port (white and red) for audio signals.

A crackling sound erupted when I connected it. I already knew the audio quality wouldn't be great—in fact, every time I'd used it, it sounded slightly compressed, distorted, and synthetic.

The screen stayed black, but then—despite everything I'd just described—the song began, with all the typical flaws of old audio equipment. The melody, in those first few seconds, was faint, overshadowed by the synthetic noise. I even found it slightly unpleasant.

But within that composition, it unconsciously prepared us for the arrival of something.

Old, distorted, rusted.

I even thought Maria's judgment had been off, or strange in her taste for discovering new music.

But then, the voice appeared.

It didn't enter forcefully. It didn't need to. It was like opening a door and feeling the air change.

A woman's voice. High but firm. Sustained. Precise as a scalpel, perfectly in tune…

And yet, soft, as if every note had been sung on the verge of tears.

It was opera, but not like the recorded concerts in packed theaters.

There was a subtle electronic foundation—a hovering piano, synthetic strings pulsing as if alive. With that voice, any pretense of ugliness in the melody, constrained by the poverty of the audio player, was forgotten and transformed into a genuine masterpiece.

But above all, there was that voice. A voice that knew what it meant to love too much and be forgotten just the same.

I didn't know if I could call it a song—because it felt bigger than that, as if the concept and the emotions it evoked didn't fit within the confines of the word.

No matter what I said, no matter how much I tried to describe it, even if I grabbed a dictionary and spent hours writing down what I felt in that moment—it would all be madness. Because I was certain no human on Earth could describe, or even feel twice, what one perceives upon hearing this. The words to articulate it simply hadn't been invented yet.

The woman's voice didn't impose itself.

But it had weight.

Every vibrato resonated in my throat. In my arms. In my ribs. Even in my breathing.

When it ended—after two minutes that felt like nirvana—we sat in silence for another two, just as long.