Violin Shop

The Violin Shop

I walked in. The small room had rows of instruments, in cupboards, on shelves, hanging from the ceiling and in sections of the walls. In front of me was a till and to the right, a door. A man appeared in the entrance of the door and I told him I'd called earlier to say I'd be coming in today, in the hopes of purchasing a violin; I was currently using my father's old one and I have to say the emphasis is on the old. The hairs on the bow were coming off and I was using a borrowed one instead. The bridge was bent over, tired of holding the strings and the strings, though new, were relatively cheap. The stuffing inside the shoulder rest had crumpled up, much like the inside of a pillow if you happen to wash it wrong. 

The walls in the room were covered with posters of rosin and instruments and the window display had shells of violins and wood shavings scattered on the sill. It no longer really felt as though I were in a place where time was relevant. This spell was of course broken if you glanced behind, through the almost floor to ceiling windows and saw the cars and scaffolding outside.