Silent Sorrow Melodies

A single shaft of hallway light slanted into the cramped room where ten-year-old Carmia crouched, clutching her battered violin like a talisman. Every inch of her skin was laced with angry bruises and ragged cuts that still oozed faint rivulets of crimson. Silent tears carved tracks down her cheeks as she stared at the warped wood of the instrument. A low whimper escaped her throat, and with trembling fingers she eased the door ajar. The hinges groaned. Her breath hitched as she dared to look down the narrow corridor—and froze. A woman’s body swung gently from the ceiling, her lifeless dress swaying, her eyes blank, lips parted in a final, silent scream.

Then darkness swallowed her.

Carmia jolted awake, chest pounding, drenched in sweat—the dream already fading like smoke. A soft voice floated to her ears: “The same dream?” Her aunt hovered at the bedside, concern etched in every line of her face. Carmia could only nod, throat too tight to form words.

Her aunt set a chipped porcelain cup of ice-cold water on the nightstand. “Carmia, you must free yourself from your past,” she urged, voice gentle but firm. “These nightmares have haunted you for years because you’re trapped in that moment.”

Carmia closed her eyes and drew in a shuddering breath. “I try,” she whispered, voice cracking, “but it doesn’t help. Her face still haunts me—I think I’m cursed, that I’m the reason—”

Her aunt cut her off, placing a cool hand on Carmia’s shoulder. “You were only ten. You had nothing to do with her death.”

With that, Carmia fell silent. “Good night, Aunt,” she muttered, forcing a hollow smile. She pretended to drift into sleep, but tears slid down her cheeks until exhaustion claimed her.

In the dim lullaby of the hallway light, her aunt bent over, pressed a gentle kiss to Carmia’s forehead, and whispered, “Rest now, love.”

* * *

At dawn, Carmia trudged along the cracked sidewalk on her way to school. A single firefly glimmered at her heels, its pale glow pulsing like a heartbeat. She glanced over her shoulder and murmured, “Why do you always lead me to the forest?” The insect hovered for a moment, then darted toward the looming treeline where ancient oaks stood like silent sentinels guarding a thousand hidden memories.

She forced a wry, haunted smile. “You know better than I do why I’m drawn there.”

A tap on her shoulder spun her around. A boy her age, dark-haired and earnest-eyed, regarded her with curious intensity. “Why do you take this path every morning?” he asked. His gaze flicked warily toward the forest’s edge. “Don’t you know the stories?”

“I know plenty,” she said coolly, shrugging. “But I don’t believe a word of them.”

He looked astonished, as if she’d declared the sun was cold. He swallowed. “They say a jinn lives in those woods—a spirit old as time, feeding on fear.”

She laughed, a sound brittle and hollow. “All fairy tales.”

He brightened. “I’m Outis. What’s your name?”

“Carmia.” She met his eyes for a fraction of a second, then looked away.

Outis’s face lit up. “Carmia? The violin prodigy?”

Her chest tightened. She whispered, “Yes.”

He smiled, nearly breathless with excitement. “I’ve never missed one of your concerts!” His grin faded, replaced by something more serious. “Why did you stop playing?”

She said nothing and turned away. He watched her go, his question hanging unanswered in the crisp morning air.

As she waved a stiff farewell, her heart slammed against her ribs when she glimpsed a pale figure between the tree trunks—her mother’s face, eyes hollow, mouth curved in grief. She stumbled backward, panic igniting her legs. The world tilted; she ran.

Panting, she skidded to a halt at the school gates. From somewhere behind her drifted a soft, familiar melody—the lullaby her mother once played on long summer evenings. Carmia’s fingers tingled as though they might summon the violin herself. She closed her eyes and let the music wash over her, even though no instrument lay in her hands.

She dashed through the doors only to be met by the vice-principal’s stern gaze. “Late again,” he said, and assigned her detention.

When the final bell rang, the halls emptied into dusk, but she and Outis remained—two silhouettes hunched over silent desks. Minutes passed in heavy quiet, until he finally broke it: “Why did you leave the violin?”

Carmia stared at her folded hands, shame and sorrow warring in her chest.

Outis sighed softly. “You don’t have to answer now—not if you don’t want to. Let’s just… be friends first. Maybe one day you’ll tell me.” He offered her a tentative smile, and for the first time since the nightmares began, she felt a flicker of something warm: hope.

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