Ori learned young that sarcasm was faster than trust. Growing up in a town that applauded toughness and measured softness in dollars, he turned wisecracks into armor and wit into a reflex. He answers questions with a joke, breaks silences with an eyebrow and a quip, and pretends the sting of disappointment bounces harmlessly off his grin. If you pry and find a cracked place underneath—an old photo of a lullaby in a shoebox, a letter with no return address—he'll call you sentimental and change the subject. He insists he has no soft spots; he just keeps them in a drawer labeled "do not open" and pretends the drawer is empty. The thing he does not pretend about is the violin. For more years than he can easily admit, Ori has practiced until his fingers bled and his ears learned to hear the exact color of a note. He carries a battered instrument that smells faintly of rosin and rain, and plays like someone translating the language of small griefs into something crystalline. He performs in dim cafes, on crowded platforms, and at midnight in empty rehearsal halls—anywhere the world is quiet enough to listen. The music is the only place his sarcasm slips its guard; under the bow, he becomes fluent in the things he will not say, and occasionally, when the light hits the varnish just right, he lets a single, honest smile show for a moment before tightening his lips and calling it something else.
this is just a backstory to a character I had to make for a school assignment
