PHOTO PROMPT © Björn Rudberg
‘It’s a lovely instrument.’ The young man handled the cello with practiced ease, running fingers down the neck and shoulder, making the wood vibrate under his touch. ‘Are you sure you want to sell?’
Den sucked on his cigarette, smoke curling from his nostrils. ‘It’s not mine. I don’t play.’
She had made it beautiful, freed its sweet, melancholy voice. Made it sing.
The young man gave him the cash, then slipped away onto the street, absorbed by the city’s hum.
The boy didn’t understand – without her, the thing was just dead wood.