The bell chimed with a dissonant clink . Behind the counter sat a woman who looked like she was made of parchment and cello resin. She didn’t look up from a disassembled flute. "I’m looking to sell," Elias said, his voice cracking.
The woman pointed a screwdriver at a velvet-lined stool. "Open it." we buy instruments
"I don't play," Elias lied. "I'm a banker. I need the space." The bell chimed with a dissonant clink
"Because you're not selling a cello," she said, returning to her flute. "You're trying to sell your soul so you don't have to feel anything. Come back when you’re ready to sell me a trumpet you actually hate. Until then, get that beautiful thing out of my shop before I charge you for the concert." "I’m looking to sell," Elias said, his voice cracking
He sat. He tucked the cello between his knees. The familiar weight felt like a punch to the gut. He drew the bow across the C-string.
Elias hesitated. He hadn't touched a string since the funeral. But the shop felt heavy, the walls lined with the ghosts of a thousand silent jazz clubs and orchestral pits, all waiting for a pulse.