When the last guest left the hall, Nela gathered programs from the empty chairs. In the middle remained around forty neat booklets, untouched since before the concert. Outside the entrance, her sister the conductor was already giving a statement to a local website. She spoke of a sold out evening and the need for a larger hall. Nela picked up her wet coat and thought perhaps empty seats simply could not be seen from the stage.
Two days later she received the report for their sponsor. The number of tickets sold was twice what the money in the box supported. The list included people from their neighborhood, including a man who had moved away the previous spring. Nela kept the accounts as a volunteer. The signature was supposed to be a formality, her sister said. A sponsor would not help a choir that seemed, ahead of winter, to interest nobody and be needed by nobody.
Nela took the document to rehearsal. The small room smelled of wet scarves and mint tea. Her sister asked the singers to leave, but Nela did not begin an argument. She said she would not certify sales that had never happened. The conductor put down her pencil and asked whether Nela really had to be the person who took away their heating. She turned all those months of work into an object on the table between them.
The oldest member returned for her glasses and heard the final sentence. She did not request details, only said she would happily pay a larger membership fee if everyone knew about it. That simple offer interrupted the sister's defense. They called a meeting the following evening. Nela showed the actual amounts without naming the falsely listed visitors. Her sister admitted embellishing the figures because she feared the choir closing again, after years spent rehearsing in kitchens.
They sent their sponsor a correction before payment. The support was reduced, and one planned guest performance was canceled. The singers chose two people to keep the records together. Nobody celebrated honesty with music: they had to move rehearsals to a colder room and borrow a heater. For several weeks the conductor addressed Nela only on business. At a family lunch they sat apart, between a bowl of potatoes and their father's unsuccessful attempts to change the subject.
For the spring concert, they sold seventy three tickets. Nela wrote that number in large figures, and her sister looked at it before walking onto the stage. Plenty of seats remained empty. Nevertheless, when they finished their final song, the applause lasted long enough for both sisters to smile. After the concert, her sister handed her a program signed by all the singers. On the back was a simple message: Thank you for leaving us a real audience.