Back in the present, Elsa sits on her narrow bed in the staff quarters, the memory fading as she stares at her calloused hands.
Maria enters, exhaustion evident in the slump of her shoulders after a 16-hour day. She freezes when she sees the sheet music scattered across her daughter's bed.
"Elsa," she sighs, closing the door quietly behind her. "What good does this do? Why torture yourself with impossible dreams?"
"Why is it impossible?" Elsa challenges, though her voice remains soft. "You've heard me play. You know I'm good."
Maria sits heavily beside her daughter. "I've protected you by hiding your gift. Talent like yours brings attention. Attention brings expectations. Expectations bring heartbreak for people like us." She takes Elsa's hands in hers. "Your father had that same gift, that same passion. Where did it lead him?"
Elsa withdraws her hands. "He left us. But that doesn't mean he left because the world crushed him."
"Maria interrupts, her voice tight with old pain." He wasn't allowed to succeed, no matter how brilliant he was. The doors kept closing because of who he was, where he came from. She strokes Elsa's hair with tender resignation. "I won't watch you suffer the same fate."
Later that night, Elsa stands in the shadows of the music room, watching through a crack in the door as a renowned pianist rehearses for the upcoming gala. The musician moves with the music, expression transported by each phrase. Elsa's hands rise unconsciously, fingers mirroring the movements on the keys, playing an invisible piano with perfect precision.
Maria finds her there, observing silently before placing a gentle hand on her daughter's shoulder. The touch carries a world of understanding and sorrow.
"When I was your age," Maria whispers, "I wanted to design beautiful clothes. I sketched dresses at night, dreamed of seeing them worn. My mother told me the same thing I'm telling you: some dreams aren't for people like us."
Elsa turns to face her mother. "But what if she was wrong? What if you're wrong?"
Maria's smile is tinged with decades of resignation. "Then I hope you can forgive me for trying to spare you the pain of finding out."