They say that old wood has memory. But this violin... it doesn't just keep melodies. Every scratch, every mark on its varnish, is the echo of a quiet lament, a tear from centuries ago that dried on its strings. You grab it and feel the chill of voices that no longer exist, of stories that were not told to you, but that weigh on you right there, in the palm of your hand.

It's not that it sounds sad; It's the sadness of someone who broke up a long, long time ago. And you, without knowing it, continue touching it.