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.
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.
"I don't buy furniture, Mr. Vance," she said, knowing his name without being told. "I buy instruments. And an instrument isn't an instrument unless it’s making a sound. Prove it works."
She stood up, her joints popping like dry reeds. She didn't touch the cello. Instead, she reached under the counter and pulled out a single, frayed bow. She handed it to him.
When he finished, the silence was louder than the music. Elias was breathing hard, his fingers stinging.
Elias unzipped the case. The mahogany glowed, even in the dim shop light. It was a beautiful, haunting thing. The woman finally looked up. Her eyes weren't on the wood, but on Elias’s hands. "Why?" she asked.
"It’s worth ten thousand," she said flatly. "But I’m not buying it." Elias blinked. "What? Why?"