A violinist sits at his stool. It squeaks across the floor for only a moment, before settling. 

It is silent in the room. Cold. Empty, save for him, his stool, and his violin.

He draws in a breath, synchronized with the movement of his bow as it poises itself before the strings below. He exhales. A puff of vapor forms in front of his nose.

The first note is heard, long and clean and quiet. His hand does not shake. The wrist is locked in place as his arm moves instead, his posture upright and still. 

Another note, higher this time, rings through the room. It shakes gracefully, much like a trained voice. This is his only voice, after all, the violin. 

He uses his heartbeat as a metronome, calm and steady, moving his arm back and forth, creating beautiful harmonies and vibrato as he does so.

Two chords vibrate together, creating chills on his arms as he moves his arm slowly, milking the note for all it is worth. 

The notes together remind him of he and another human, one that played flute better than anyone he ever knew. Violin and flute mixed together well, just like he and this human, this beautiful human with bright eyes and perfect rhythm. 

The bow slips. A sour note fills the air. He stops, frozen, his hand held still with its weapon in its hand. 

One, two, three, four, five.... He breathes in and exhales calmly.

A note pierces the air, followed by another. It is faster this time. The metronome of his heart beats just slightly faster, his body startled by the stray thought. He didn't expect it. 

The song flows in a swaying fashion, like tall waves rolling against the sides of a ship that rocks to the rhythm of his heart. Back and forth, his arm moves, harmonies coming out gracefully reluctant until he regains his posture and confidence.

He continues.

His fingers dip into the creases of his instrument, the wood worn down from play after play, forming perfectly to his hands, as if the neck of his violin was a hand in itself. He doesn't feel so lonely when he is playing, although that may be because he has no time to focus on people or lack of thereof. The notes are all he needs.

He almost slips, but regains his focus just in time to riff into a new note, shaking his head as if to snap himself out of it. 

Of course, that does not work. 

A face appears in front of his eyes, blocking his violin from his view. One sour note after another fills his ears, but he can't do much to stop it other than stopping the music altogether, and that just won't do. Filled with determination, he stands, closing his eyes and playing blindly as he paces. 

The warm wood against his hand reminds him of a palm he used to hold onto every day, every time he could. A hand more familiar than his own. The rich color of his own violin, so light in his hands, was dull in comparison to the chestnut eyes that crinkled at the edges when a smile rose upon their lips. 

Screeching notes fill the space, the man focusing less on the music and more on summoning the mental image of the tall, doe-eyed human that used to float around the room when beautiful arias were in the making, and that flipped sheets of music with dainty fingers when needed.

Faster and faster come the shrill notes, faster and faster come the silhouette in the man's mind. 

The man's eyelids squeeze together, mouth clamp shut. Back and forth moves the bow in rapid, quick movements. He isn't playing anymore. He's just... moving. Just making noise as if, when he stops, the figure will be gone forever. As if, when he stops, it will really be over.

A vivid image is projected on his eyelids; the colors saturated and the smile and eyes brighter than the sun itself. The bow saws over the strings, the good notes overshadowed by the symphony of other notes not meant to be played together being played together. 

He plays with all his might, back and forth, his arm aching, playing to an empty room. Adrenaline rushes through the man's body. Ten years without his husband, ten years without seeing that smile. More intensely he plays, louder. Perhaps if he plays a bit faster, maybe the figure will talk--

The bow snaps.