Mickey
I wince as I bend over, thumbing through the plastic audiobooks. A romance book set in World War II catches my eye, and I scoff. These romance books. They never get wars right.
I stand back up, unsatisfied, and am about to head to the non-fiction when a violin weirdly starts playing. I walk to the staircase, my steps slow and slightly painful (I hate how everything is painful now) and peer over the railing.
A young girl, maybe in her teens, is playing the violin near the librarian's desk. I can't see her face from the stairs, but she has blonde hair, and a blind girl stands near her.
The song is sad and sounds far away, and it washes over me like a breeze. My wife, she used to play the violin, way back before she got sick. She was good at it, too.
My grip tightens on the railing as the song quickens, notes pouring from the instrument like wind, begging, beautifully sharp notes. And then the song softens again and I breathe deeply.
YOU ARE READING
The City Sleeps for Me
Short StoryRebecca can't see. Emily can't live without her violin. But they both love the rain, and the city, and talking to each other. A novella.
