The violin hissed when Anya opened its case. A cold breath of air escaped, carrying the scent of aged wood and something darker. Its surface was veined like cracked ice, as if the instrument had been frozen in time.
Her mother’s suicide note lay beside it, written in jagged, hurried strokes.
“It’s the only way to silence it.”
Anya’s hands trembled, but she ignored the warning. She lifted the violin, cradling it like something fragile. Then, she played.
The first note rang out, smooth as silk. But as the melody deepened, something stirred. Shadows coiled at the edge of her vision. The room shifted.
Suddenly, she saw her mother—laughing, twirling in the living room. Then, just as quickly, the scene twisted. Laughter turned to screams. The music soured, thick with discord. Anya gasped, but her fingers refused to stop. The violin had a will of its own.
At her debut concert, the world watched. Anya stood under the golden glow of the stage lights, violin tucked under her chin. She drew the bow across the strings, and the sound poured out like a flood.
Gasps rippled through the audience. People clutched their chests, tears spilling down their cheeks. They weren’t just listening—they were remembering. Grief, regret, heartbreak. Every buried sorrow dragged into the light.
Then, a voice cut through the melody.
“Stop! You’re killing her!”
A man in the front row was on his feet, his face twisted in horror. Anya’s fingers ached, but she kept playing—until she saw it.
Blood.
Her fingertips were raw, the violin strings slicing deeper with each note. The instrument drank it in, humming with hunger.
That night, fevered and delirious, she dreamed of her mother.
“It feeds on pain,” her mother whispered, her eyes hollow. “Break it, and you break us both.”
Anya woke at dawn, drenched in cold sweat. She staggered to the violin’s case, her breath shallow. The instrument gleamed in the dim light, waiting.
With a scream, she raised it high—then brought it crashing down.
The wood splintered. The strings snapped. The violin let out a final, shuddering note.
Then, silence.
From the broken shards, a soft lullaby rose. A voice, familiar and warm.
Her mother’s voice.
At last, at peace.