Music of Silence
In a dimly lit studio, she stood alone. The room was quiet—only a stool in the corner, a soft rug beneath her, and a violin resting on a simple stand. The air was heavy with the scent of aged wood and rosin, thick with the anticipation of sound.
She was bare, the golden light from a high window casting soft warmth across her skin. Her body, like the violin beside her, held quiet grace—curved, silent, waiting. Every line of her form echoed something sacred, something unfinished, like a phrase waiting to be played.
She approached the instrument. Her fingers, trembling, brushed the strings. Cool wood met warm flesh—familiar, electric. She lifted the violin, resting it beneath her chin, and closed her eyes. The world fell away.
Then—music.
It rose from her slowly, each note born from breath and body. The bow glided across the strings, coaxing sighs, cries, and whispers. Her movements were fluid, her form swaying gently, the violin no longer an object, but an extension of herself. She breathed with it, into it.
Light shifted. Shadows curled around her like dancers, retreating and returning, drawn by her song. The studio held its breath—caught between silence and echo. Outside, the city continued unaware, but within these walls, time had stopped.
She played not with her hands alone, but her whole being. Her body told stories—of yearning, of love, of loss. The violin wept and laughed in her grip. The room shimmered with sound and shadow, golden and raw. She gave herself to it, completely.
Then, stillness.
The final note hung in the air, dissolving like mist. She lowered the violin slowly. The silence that followed was sacred—something had been given, something deep and irretrievable.
She placed the instrument back, her fingertips lingering on the wood. Then she turned, spine tall, expression soft, and walked away. The room remained—charged, changed, echoing with the music of her soul, a hush that would never fully fade.
