The Ballad of the Violin-Maker

He seated himself on his bench. Doing what he did best. Better than anyone else. Maestro. They came for him from far and wide. He knew that each one he crafted was unique. Life of its own. Independent. They praised his skill to the sky. Ne Plus Ultra. Perfection. He never let them down. Never. Each one's need he made his own. Personal. His hands adroitly created these beautiful pieces.

This was all he knew. His life dedicated to genesis, to the birth of music so haunting it would melt the hardest of hearts. He worked till dusk and began at dawn while his clientele waited with a pretense of patience. Gently he would mould the wood, gingerly he would string the violin. Perfection every inch of the way. Carefully he would place it in eager hands. They would try. Joy would erupt in every sinew of his body. Create. Listen. Create. Listen. He learned to listen. All the time. To their tunes. To their stories.

One day. A little girl. Came across the violin-maker. He looked up and saw her. First time that someone came. Without needing a violin. He was puzzled. Unsure of what to do. What to say. She said all of one word. "Play". Shock. Clumsily he picked up a violin. Like a child taking it's first steps. Uncertain of direction. He picked up the fiddle. It felt strange in his hand. He had never held it in this way ever before. He looked at her again. Almost like she knew what he needed to do next. She was waiting. Oblivious to the turmoil in his mind. The realization, now fully formed struck him like an avalanche. A bolt of lightning.

He never learned to play. Too invested in making was he. Like a bird that would never flap its wings. Too tied up in serving others was he. Like love that was trapped in a heart. He never sat on that bench again.

Fin.

Tweet