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Her mother expected her to play.

And so she did.

For hours on end, the soft melody drifted from her window.

Her scales were gentle,

Almost an elegy or a nocturne of sorts.

C, B, G.

It fell,

Repeating itself for what seemed an eternity,

Each time growing with more emotions until it grew into a frenzied passion.

Her finger bled,

But she continued.

Everything she had ever felt flowed out in the single burst,

And as she drew the bow across the violin in ecstasy,

The strings snapped,

Curling in on themselves.

And she was once more calm.

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