At the far end of the city lies a cemetery enclosed by a coniferous forest. It was aloof, inhabited by owls, with no visitor or company.
On some nights, one would hear bizarre, melancholic sounds. The lingering sounds leave a soothing impression on the soul. It was a hunch that the dead spirits were singing, so that their beloveds would hear them.
One starry night, a kid mustered up enough courage to venture into the dark, less-trodden road. Surprisingly, it was the bow fidgeting on the fiddle, rupturing into thousand notes of glee.
It had always been the man.
Pool of Creativity 