The Silent Song

Elara sat in the dim light of her cottage. Her fingers moved across the cracked lute strings with practiced precision. She felt the vibrations through her fingertips—deep, resonant tones that she imagined as rich harmonies.

The lute body hummed against her chest. Warmth spread through her ribs. This was music she could feel but never truly hear.

On the wall, the framed letter caught the dust-moted sunlight. The words burned into her memory: "A deaf musician cannot understand the essence of music." She glared at it. Her jaw tightened.

The Academy had rejected her ten years ago. The council's decision still echoed in her isolation. She had poured every ounce of herself into mastering the lute through vibration and touch.

And for what?

Her fingers pressed harder against the strings. The vibration intensified. She played for an audience that would never exist.

Dust motes danced in shafts of sunlight through grimy windows. They swirled in patterns she couldn't hear. The world outside moved to rhythms she would never know.

Elara's eyes returned to the rejection letter. It hung there like a judgment. A reminder of everything she had lost and everything she could never be.

She struck another chord. The lute sang its silent song. Bitterness rose in her throat like bile.

This was her life now. Alone in this cottage at the edge of Oakhaven. Playing music that no one else could understand. Surrounded by instruments that felt like friends but served only as markers of her isolation.

The vibration faded. Silence returned.

Elara noticed movement outside through the dust-covered windows. Something strange danced in the road beyond her cottage. She squinted.

The figure moved with fluid yet compulsive motions. Arms flailed. Legs kicked in patterns that suggested some invisible choreography. This wasn't normal.

She set down her lute. Stood. Crossed to the window.

The dancer's movements grew more frantic. Elara's breath caught. Something was wrong.