Hasegawa — Myuu

After the others had gone, Myuu opened it. Inside, resting on a velvet cushion, was a single violin string. A note read: “Some things are not meant to be silent forever.”

A single tear, black with mascara and the crushed charcoal of her makeup, traced a crooked river down her white cheek. The drunk men did not see it. But the collector did. He leaned forward, and for the first time, Myuu saw that his own hands were trembling.

When the song ended, the silence was not empty. It was full. Full of every unshed tear, every broken string, every father who had forgotten how to listen.

That was the year the music stopped in her house. Her father, a once-famous violinist, had smashed his instrument against the wall after his wife left. The shards of spruce and maple had rained down like black snow. Myuu had picked up the longest splinter and hidden it under her pillow. A silent scream.