The Sound of Empty Strings

Be aware of the sound of the violin at mid-night

The Sound of Empty StringsIn the small town of Hollowshire, a curious legend whispered through cobblestones and rain-soaked alleys. They called it the Violinist Without Strings. Children sang rhymes about it to scare each other, and old folks shook their heads at the memory of eerie nights when music echoed from nowhere.Nora Evens, a traveling musician, heard the tale when she arrived for a short stay. She had always sought inspiration from the strange and the forgotten, and the idea of a haunted violin captured her imagination. She was told to stay at Marrow House, a crumbling inn on the edge of the forest, where no one dared to sleep beyond a single night.The innkeeper, a gaunt man with eyes like hollow pits, handed her a tarnished brass key. "Room six," he said, voice low. "Don't listen if you hear the strings after midnight. Just stay in your bed."Nora, amused by the theatrics, nodded and carried her violin up the narrow staircase.At exactly 12:03 a.m., she heard it.The first note was soft, a whisper of melody that drifted like fog. She sat up, heart racing. The sound came from just outside her door — a violin playing a haunting, mournful tune. But it wasn't her violin.She swung her legs over the bed and tiptoed to the door, pressing her ear to the wood. Her breath caught.There were no footsteps. No breathing. Just the sound of empty strings.She opened the door.The hallway was dark, save for a single candle burning at the far end. The music grew louder, swelling with sorrow and longing. As she stepped forward, she noticed the source of the sound: a violin hovering in midair. It moved as if played by invisible hands, its bow drawing across strings that didn't exist.She felt the air grow colder. A shiver traced her spine.The violin turned toward her.And then it spoke — not in words, but in music. Each note seemed to form a question, a plea, a warning. The melody pulled her closer, like a thread winding around her heart."Who are you?" she whispered.The music shifted, dissonant and sharp. A memory surfaced in her mind — one she did not recognize as her own. She saw a man with hollow eyes and a face half-hidden by shadows, his hands bleeding as he tightened the strings of a violin made from bone. He whispered, "A soul for a song."The vision faded. She gasped, clutching the wall for balance.The violin hovered closer. In its reflection, she saw her own face — but it was not her. Her eyes were dark pits, her mouth twisted in a silent scream.She backed away, her heart hammering. "What do you want?"The answer came in a single, shattering note.The candle flickered out.When morning came, the innkeeper found the room empty. Nora's violin lay on the bed, its strings snapped. The brass key was placed neatly on the pillow.The sound of music drifted faintly from the forest edge that day.They say if you listen closely at midnight, you'll still hear the Violinist Without Strings, searching for the soul that broke their melody.And some say they've seen her reflection in a broken window, playing a violin of bone.