1943

- the violinist's finale -

1943. 

Snow sprinkled the ground, dusting each cobbled stone with a layer of white flakes. The sky was blue; as blue as the lips of the old man trying to find shelter in the skeleton form of a house. Its windows lay shattered on the frozen road. A small picture frame was half-buried amongst the ashes and charred memories. The old man hobbled over to it, retrieving the frame from the rubble. He held it close, tenderly gazing at it. A young girl smiled up at him through the cracked glass. Drops froze as they fell onto the picture. The wind whispered through the streets in icy breaths. 

The man started to return the frame to its place but upon second thoughts, he paused, placing it on a mangled table. Shuffling his wearied feet across the ground, he limped towards a black case. Picking up the marred body of a violin, he slowly placed it under his chin. The first tune was a mournful song; each note haunting and yet beautiful. He paused, letting the sound echo around him. Looking back at the picture, life flickered in his eyes once again as he rested the bow upon those dusty strings. Tears threatened and then fell in time with his faltering heartbeat. 

His mind filled with memories - a little girl holding his hand, clinging on desperately as the last moments of her life passed away. “Soon, daddy, we’ll be together again...in another place.” 

Little children leaping to his music. Then their faces faded, sealed in the past. He was alone again. The only beautiful thing left in that war-swept town was the sound of his violin singing a lullaby to the victims in their graves. The smiling girl still watched him silently. Her picture was the only reminder of what he once had. His heart faltered, and he fell, dropping his violin. 

It shattered. 

He whispered one last time, "ma petite fille”.