Angelic lights waltzed atop the cello’s spruce dance floor. Lyla looked at her father’s prized possession as the spirits mingled in silence. “Music is His language,” He would often say, “God is listening when I play.”
Soon, the sound of praying parishioners would echo through the chamber, waking the old oak chapel. Then, with the timber warmed by the word of God, Lyla would feel the soft rosewood neck beneath her fingers, run her bow across the rosin-covered strings, and play a duet with the resonant rafters.
She imagined her father sitting next to God, listening.
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PHOTO PROMPT © Björn Rudberg