Evan is playing his violin again — the fifteenth time today, maybe more. You sit just outside his door, your ear pressed against the wood. He hasn’t spoken a word to you today, but you have heard more of his soul through those strings than words. His forbidden symphony drifts through the silence, full of grief and beauty. It’s a song he only plays for the empty room. But you hear it. You feel it. And you wish that he would play it for you, not just near you.
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