Phrolova's Music Sheet

Her expression was calm, yet her hands waved with fervent, exaggerated motions, sweeping across one score after another. Reason teetered, then was torn, drowned beneath emotion's storm. Notes were shattered, then reborn, twisted into sound deformed.

Phrolova's Violin

She was the one who received their gifts. She was the one who buried their remains. One by one, the strings sang their exalted cries. Cycle after cycle, her bow played through repeated demises.

Retained Concert Ticket

Once again, she stood before the music hall's entrance, with the ticket in her hand. She began to forget what exactly she was waiting for. The friend who understood her music? Or the path that shared a similar destination? The crowds thinned. The doors closed behind the last of the audience. Yet, the ticket remained in her grasp. Then came the clarity: she had waited for neither. She was only waiting for a small thread to hang on to. A lifeline she dreamed of. She would wait no longer.

Song of Red and Black

The audience drowned in the performance. Some sat frozen, others trembled, swaying like reeds in a storm. In the dark, countless eyes locked onto that lone, delicate yet powerful figure, their stares hypnotized by the rise and fall of her arms, like scattered notes lost in a feverish improvized elegy. The presto's boiling melodies ignited the burning desires in their chests. Suppressed emotions flared. Uncontrolled. Uncontained. They choked on the music's maddening climax, dragged to the edge of their sanity alongside her. At the cliff's brink, above a yawning abyss, they hungered for the blossoms of destruction and rebirth. Yet, just before that leap could be taken, the conductor stilled her arms under the spotlight. The music ceased with a sudden, almost cruel finality. She stood there motionless, like a statue, chest heaving. The last tether of reason that pulled her back had snapped, dissolving into the sea of emotions where she drifted alone. Her gaze was set on the ceiling, never once lowering to meet the eyes of the audience below. Was that the end? Silent. Perturbed. Lost. The audience began leaving in a daze. But before they reached the door, the music returned like echoes from the past. It easily hissed back to life in an endless loop in their skulls, more captivating than when it was first heard, awakening and amplifying the madness within each one's heart. In an era of brightness, people would walk out with smiles on their faces, embracing a gilded tomorrow as they drank the crimson song. In an era of darkness, the blackened song would become the final straw, leading them to the windows above without hesitation. She never seemed to care what color her music might paint for others. She only continued to sway her hands through the cycle of time. And those sitting in the music hall never pondered where the music would lead them. Time and time again the creator of those warm and sorrowful melodies stood on that stage, yet no one ever paused to wonder what kept her there—whether it was art, fury, or grief for a love long buried in dust.