The Ebony Mute

Walking back from the brick underpass through the dim lanes, I returned to the quiet parlor and approached a three-pronged ebony mute resting upon the side table. Setting my bow aside, I lifted the small carved timber between my skeletal fingertips. Rather than coaxing another note from the strings, I guided the narrow slots with deliberate ceremony down over the bridge of my bone violin. It pressed home with a muffled, velvet resistance, dampening all potential resonance into total hush. I folded my hands over the neck, satisfied that silence was formally ordained for the night.