At each sunset, the Violinist sauntered to a tiny patchwork of grass in the Park of Farewells and began to play all of the world’s saddest symphonies, composing the end of yet another affair. She had witnessed so many broken hearts and bewildered minds that her ballads could only tell the story of loss and despair. The Violinist had once played with a bright passion as she fantasized of flying to the crevices of the unknown and playing on a stage set before the universe.

The Violinist had built dreams upon dreams upon dreams.

Those youthful aspirations were soon propelled away, perhaps to a nearby galaxy or to the moon, as the Violinist became a toy in the cruel hands of her Puppeteer. He became greedy at the sight of her long, slender fingers and her abstract mind. He desired to know her secrets and tricks and was appalled by her optimistic perspectives. He became addicted to her beautiful melodies embroidered with sincerity and quiet confessions. Selfish in nature, he began to guide her away from her constellation of dreams and towards his own stage of fun and games. The Violinist had smiled then, naive to her tragic fate.

He loved her he said, and she loved him. Each day, the Violinist played her most compassionate pieces while he listened, sitting on a small patchwork of grass. Yet, as time passed, the Puppeteer's heart no longer fluttered and his eyes only wandered while she played.

The Violinist soon found herself alone, with no one to love and no one to love her. She became lost, still trapped on the Puppeteer's stage, and chose to stay near the familiar patchwork of grass.

Misplaced and clouded with sadness, the Violinist began to perform songs that catered to the misery of those around her. She composed gentle melodies that eased the pain of the lovers that chose to separate and healed the wounds of the abandoned. She arranged music that fit the tone of the conversations around her and was mindful to remain silent. The Violinist emptied her own mind and kept herself a stranger to others.

From dawn to dusk, through every season or holiday, she played religiously. Not only for those that shared a similar fate, but for the dying man with no family to weep his passing, for the mother who had lost her sons at war, for the orphan who shed silent tears, and for the many hearts that were soon to be broken.

One day, however, the Violinist stopped playing and instead, watched her gray hairs dance along with the spring breeze. She let her mind wander and fly, and soon realized that all she wanted was to listen to the song of a stranger. The Violinist had blindly performed for others for so long, that she had forgotten to listen to the music around her.

As the sun began to peak over the horizon, the Violinist heard the faint whispers of a pounding heart and the gentle tune of young love. She laid her instrument on the bench beside her and sat on the patchwork of grass. Finally, the Violinist had the heart to listen for awhile.