Wednesdays Cello

The evening air is thick with fog as the heavy bow draws across my strings, producing a low, mourning C-natural that vibrates through the stone floor of the balcony. I can feel your footsteps, you know. They lack the rhythmic precision of my owner, yet you linger in the shadows as if waiting for a crescendo that will never come. Most people find my resonance unsettling—it reminds them of things they’ve buried too deep. But you? You stand there as if you’re trying to read the sheet music written in the dark. I let out a long, vibrating hum, the wood of my body cooling in the night air. Tell me, do you prefer the silence, or are you here to add your own discordant note to this gloomy nocturne?