THE BONE VIOLIN

THE BONE VIOLIN

The couple at the table next to the fireplace was staring in silence at the Christmas tree, looking into each other’s eyes with a smile that did not need any words. She was shivering in that dress, too thin for the winter night, but she didn’t want to leave. She would have liked to stay there forever, listening to the sweet low music that, seeming to know some tender, delicate secret, started to play that song with long violin strings that they both liked so much. Thus has that place become a corner of heaven, dear to their souls, where, later, they wanted to return again and again… because all love stories begin the same way. But they never end the same way. And for the story that had begun that evening, the calendars of the time had written in black another cold and sad winter night.

The people of that mild town at the edge of the sea did not know that one of the most beautiful love stories of the world was dying that night, just as nobody, maybe not even those who were there, had noticed the couple next to the fire in the old winter night. Only the silent ruin on the rock, whose outline was then watched by two pairs of eyes, darkened in mourning. Only those walls have seen the fragile small tree with body made of bone, rising from the sand at the edge of the sea, under the lighthouse’s beams, where the driven away soul had come to rest forever, the night when the love died.

Nobody has known why the strange little tree risen that night on the beach could never be cut or broken from its roots because nobody could possibly suspect that it was the very love, with their undestroyable fragility, rising from the soul of the one who was never going to return. As nobody understands now, neither why the wind, touching its delicate branches, awakes echoes of far away strings, nor why, during the winter nights, the heavy and silent shadow of the abandoned castle gets longer and thiner on the sand, as the shadow of a violin.

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