His posture is hunched as he labors through the park in measured shuffles, the soloist staking claim to the bench for two.
Birds audition in the trees as his gnarled hands rosin the bow. The violin rediscovers its home, just beneath his jaw, supported by his collarbone, the same spot where her head used to rest.
His eyes close. Vibrating strings resonate within him, their quivering melancholy speaking the language of his sorrowful soul, dark timbres assuaging the ache. Notes float on gossamer clouds to their diaphanous destination where she sits smiling. Birds hush as the rivulet slips down his cheek.