Vault #5
Josey was no Bard. She could not pick up a lute and pluck the strings, she could not sit in front of a harpsichord and let her fingers dance across the keys. What she could do is play the flute. She could weave tales with her music, song of birds and songs of incantations. She could create scenery with the trill of her fingers flowing up scales and crashing crescendos. She could transform the world into one of serenity with languid lulls of softness and peace.
She could at one time.
She did for Atticus.
Her most prized possessions remain locked away in the cellar’s vault, the small room lined with boxes of all his belongings from the clothing he once wore to the collectable sailboats he loved. Hidden away from sight were all the things that made him him. And some of the things that once made them them. She kneels on the floor by one box, the wooden lid unlocked and lifted open so she can see down into the interior. Sheets of music of varying pieces lay strewn about in the bottom, a quick, haphazard job of shoving away something in frantic haste. Her hands dig through the pages, straightening them out until she comes to the bottom where a long wooden box rests. Her flute. Josey’s face falls as her fingers grace over the surface of the case, brushing aside some dust that had collected there before she pulls the case free from it’s nest. Josey rests the box on her lap, thumb flicking open the latch, to look at the dismantled instrument inside. She could remember the day it played it last song and how Atticus listened to her do so. The white gold plated hollow body glistens in the dim light of the vault before Josey closes the lid, latching it, then putting it back in storage. She couldn’t bear to put it together and play one more tune.
She only played for him.
@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast
