Lena by Maryna Tkachenko

Lena sat in the silence

of her apartment, fingers tracing the rim of a teacup, recalling the melodies she once played. It had been two years since the accident, a moment that severed her from the world of sound. The silence was oppressive at first, a thick fog that dulled her existence. Lena had always been a musician, her life was an endless symphony of notes and rhythms. Losing her hearing felt like losing herself.

But today, something was different. She reached for her violin, an instrument she had abandoned after the accident. It was still in perfect condition, though it had gathered a thin layer of dust. She wiped it clean, her fingers reverently touching the strings. Even in silence, the wood felt warm and alive under her hands. She felt the presence of her wife, Anna, and stopped playing.

Anna handed Lena a phone with a message: “I miss your music. Play for me, please.”

Lena nodded, returned to her violin and began playing again, this time with Anna beside her. She played pieces Anna loved and though Lena could not hear, she felt the music in her bones. Each note was a whisper of love, a promise that even in the absence of sound, there was still harmony.

When Lena finally lowered her bow, the room seemed to hum with the echoes of her music. Anna hugged her tightly, and for the first time in a long while, Lena felt whole. She realised that the music had never truly left her. It lived within her all of those years, in the memories, in the vibrations, and in the silent but unwavering support of the person she loved most.