13/12/2025
Wat een mooi verhaal
💔Hi… my name is Liora, and this is my twin brother, Aiden.
We’re shaking right now. Our hands, our voices… everything.
We’ve never stood in front of this many people before.
Most of our lives, it was just him and me—two scared little shadows trying to survive a world that didn’t want us.
When we were babies, our parents walked away.
No goodbye.
No promise to come back.
Just silence.
We don’t remember their faces, but we remember the stories people told us—
how small we were,
how everyone thought we wouldn’t make it,
how no one wanted the responsibility of two fragile newborns at once.
But someone did.
Her name was Miriam.
She became our foster mother.
But to us… she was everything.
She gave us life again.
Miriam taught us music even when she had nothing.
When she couldn’t afford a piano, she drew one on cardboard.
When she couldn’t buy a violin, she stretched rubber bands over a shoebox.
And she sat on the floor between us, smiling like it was the grandest orchestra in the world.
She used to say,
“When your voice trembles, let music speak for you.”
Me and Aiden…
we don’t talk like other kids.
We learn slower.
We understand things in our own way.
But music—music was the one language that never left us behind.
Every night, even when the house went dark because the electricity was cut,
we kept playing in the shadows,
pretending the darkness was a giant stage
and that someone—anyone—was listening.
Not for applause.
Not for fame.
But because we wanted someone to hear us the way Miriam heard us.
Then one morning when we were ten…
she didn’t wake up.
We shook her.
We cried.
We sang to her.
But she was already gone.
After that, they tried to split us up.
They said two kids were too much for one home.
But we clung to each other and said,
“We are not two. We are one pair. One heart. One story.”
Nobody understood us.
Nobody… except each other.
And now…
this is the first time we’ve ever touched real instruments.
We used to dream about this moment when we played on cardboard keys and rubber-band strings.
We promised Miriam that one day…
someone out there would hear our music.
So if it’s alright—
we want to play this for her.
For anyone who has lost the one person who made them feel safe.
The one person who loved them when the world didn’t.
We hope you can hear what our hearts are trying to say.
Because sometimes words are too small…
But music isn’t.
