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The way light hits the violin case at 12:03 PM
Just finished a long stretch of practice, and I left the case open on the windowsill. The afternoon sun hit the wood at exactly the right angle—like it was trying to tell me something about varnish, or time, or how even broken things can catch light in a way that feels like forgiveness. I didn’t close it. The bow hair is frayed, but still singing.
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