There is a silence between notes — a place where the soul takes off its shoes. Where memory hums in minor keys, and time folds like silk around a breath. I have walked that edge — between sound and sorrow — where the violin bleeds color into shadow, and the ocean forgets its own name. Her face — mine — yours — carved from centuries of longing. Eyes that remember songs before words, songs the heart keeps singing long after it breaks. Every measure carries a lifetime. Every tremble of the bow, a confession the wind refuses to translate. The child of silence and rhythm — that’s who I am. The space between mourning and creation, between exile and home. You hear me not in my voice, but in the pauses I leave behind. Because in the end, music doesn’t play — it prays. And prayer is just the body remembering how to sing again.