Clare Wu (9) | STAFF REPORTER
Bright sunlight bounces off broken glass, streaks of golden light illuminating the room. An empty manor abandoned by all except the plant life, cracked wood, broken windows, and branches extending into the once-great hall. Dust notes twirl and dance under the sunlight, but no sound breaks the silence. No birds sing, no leaves rustle. The silence here, in this ruined house of memories, is awkward and stilted, all too human in its unnaturalness.
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Slowly, as the sun dims, as day gives way to night, a faint outline of a girl, lost to this world yet still chained to it, becomes visible. Her hands, translucent, glide over the keys, her voice like a dove, her hands, still, voice like a silent harp, both there and yet not. She sits among the dust, playing the sweet melody that will never touch anyone’s ears.
