many many years ago, when i was twelve, my father brought a tiny violin home from his travels.

he had been gone for many months and i was so excited to have him home again.

“look what i brought you, son!” he said, and pulled out a box.

inside the box was the tiny violin. it was smaller than my thumb, impossibly small, and it was impeccably crafted.

as i feasted my eyes on the violin, i could hear the faintest hint of music, as if a musician across the valley had just finished a performance and the last echo was still lingering in the air.

i wanted nothing more than to be able to play that beautiful instrument. i set the box carefully on my dresser and checked on it many times a day.

one summer afternoon, i went to my room to check on the violin, only to discover that the box was empty. i let out a cry of shock and disappointment. my parents had been outside in the yard all morning so i didn’t know where it could have gone.

just then, in the quiet that remained after my cry disappeared, i heard music. it sounded like it was coming from the yard so i went to the patio door and stepped outside.

{to be continued in the story club}