To The One Who Listens

The violin rests in silence, yet it remembers every note once drawn from its strings. The bow no longer rises, the hand that gave it voice is gone—but the air around it still carries a faint echo. Each butterfly, each bird, each fragment of letter is part of a love song it once gave to the world.

Now it waits, not to be played again, but to be heard in another way. Its music lingers in memory, in silence, in the spaces only the heart can hear.

This painting is a letter not written in words, but in echoes.

To the one who listens—it still sings.