Daphne
I squint at the narrow book titles, whispering the name under my breath as my eyes scan the shelves. My daughter has been begging for this certain book, and I promised her I would find it in the library today. I've been trying to please more her since the divorce. I stuff my hands in the pockets of my coat, anxious to find the book and hurry home before it gets too cold and dark outside.
A slow, sad violin song suddenly begins to play, tearing my attention away from the row of children's books, and walk down the aisle. Is someone playing the violin in the library? The song is sweeping and somber, and the notes flutter in the high rafters of the building.
I turn the corner and find a girl playing a violin by the librarian's desk; beside her, a girl with a white cane stands. The library is deadly silent except for the violin; almost architectural-like in sound, the song builds and bleeds, inking the books with sadness and sorrow.
I lean against a bookshelf, scared to make a sound. The girl has to be at least half my age; young and bright, yet spilling so much emotion into her instrument. The violin begins to throb, quicken in pace. Weirdly, I find myself blinking back tears.
YOU ARE READING
The City Sleeps for Me
Short StoryRebecca can't see. Emily can't live without her violin. But they both love the rain, and the city, and talking to each other. A novella.
