In the dark, empty hall, a lone cello lies. Its sleek sides are scuffed and scratched, yet it maintains its signature, recognisable frame.

The top: spruce. Its glazing faded and matted, revealing the true, raw nature of its beauty.

The sides: maple. The round edges bear the scars of years of playing. The sharp corners, the bumps in the road. And now, the dusty floor forever.

The back: willow. The wood no-one sees, resonating and encapsulating the sound for all to hear.

Yet no one is here. A singular ray of moonlight peeks through a crack in the ceiling and shines on its dusty body. And there it stays, motionless, as void of music as everything around, almost begging to be played. It’s ghostly tones, it’s mournful potential, locked inside a vacuum of meaningless emptiness.

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Once, it was clean. Once, it had purpose. The helpless masses would flock around it’s sound like a siren song, and bathe in it’s spectral vibrations. For to hear a cello play is like hearing the end of the world itself. A lament of ambiguous sorrow. A reminder of what is good, and what has been lost to time. A vision of what lies ahead for us, and a salute to what has long been left behind.

Maybe one day, someone will pick up its bow once more, cleaning the dust in streaks of fingertips. Maybe one day, it will bless more ears with its jarring tones. Until then, it remains in solitude, echoes of its life reverberating in its frame.