Violin

The attic held the key to sorrow I thought I'd buried deep within my soul. When rain is drumming against the window, just like it used to when I was little and Grandma would play for me. I found her violin today, nestled amongst cobwebs and forgotten toys. It's dusty, and the strings are a bit tarnished. But it's still beautiful. I remember how her fingers would dance across the strings, coaxing out the most magical sounds.

 

Tracing the smooth curve of its neck, I can almost feel her beside me. Music was our language. But that was before. The silence that had descended upon our home after your accident is a heavy cloak. Each room held a ghost of your presence—the scent of lavender in your linen closet, the rustle of pages as you turned them in your favorite armchair. I tried to play it, but the music just stopped. It feels like a piece of me is missing, like a part of me died with her.

 

My boyfriend, Nick, found her music book. He brought it over, and it's filled with her handwriting, her notes, even those beautiful sketches of her face alight with passion as she played. The one with her flowing script and sketches of her playing. As I turned the pages, a familiar tune—yet somehow different—started to form in my mind. So, I picked up the violin again with my fingers trembling.

 

This time, something shifted. The music flowed like all the emotions I've been holding inside. Nick was watching me with his eyes wide. Because he'd never seen me play before.

 

A single tear rolled down my cheek when I finished.

 

The silence isn't empty anymore. It's filled with the memory of her love. I think this is the greatest gift you ever gave me that'll continue to live on.