A woman stands in front of a simple grave, a violin in one hand, bow in the other. The bow rests on the instrument, ready but unmoving. She breathes deeply, trying to hold back tears. She lowers the bow slowly, before letting it slip from her grasp. It lands on the wilting flowers of years gone by, knocking a single faded petal off from its rightful place. The woman falls to her knees, unable to hide her emotion.
“Why did you bring that?” A man asks, kneeling beside her. She half ignores him, but answers anyway.
“I want to play her one last song,” she replies through her sobs.
“Did you?” He asks, forming the words carefully.
“I don’t think so.”
The man sighs and hands her the bow, offering his hand to help her up. She refuses his offer silently. He smiles apologetically, but she doesn’t see, she is staring at the words carved so carefully into the stone.
Volani Hlavinka, Died aged 16.
The name still warms her heart, even after so long. But the fire is quickly put out by the next word on the headstone.
“I hope you manage it, one day,” the man says slowly, turning to leave. The woman rises and hands him the violin.
“I don’t think I need this anymore.”