PHOTO PROMPT © Björn Rudberg
The instruments lay silent, truths quivering and fading, an unbearable loss. Angels spoke through his music they said and it was true. The collected strings and chords and notes made up his veins and blood and skin. He, a cavatina, and now allentando.
Any day they said, indelible sounds slipping away into the night. Deft fingers caressed smooth wood, music inside waiting to be freed. Others, he knew, would come to free it. Music was as it always had been.
Who would set him free?