I called it a story, but I don’t really know what it is. I guess it’s more of an illustration that I tried to paint with words.
I wrote this text on October 23, 2018. I remember this scenery well: a crowd of people rushing to the underground because it was raining. And near the station there is a person playing the violin. But no one halted, as neither the weather nor the evening hour was favourable.
When I got home, these words came to my mind. I don’t know if I can convey my thoughts by translating, but I will try.

Melody

The melody was soft, as it always had been. Soft, delicate, and imbued with a tinge of sadness, it resonated anew as the bow caressed the instrument. Although faint, it faced no barriers, for certain images transcend the confines of distance. The falling raindrops conveyed the music afar, as did the branches of trees whispering in the forest, the waves surging across the sea, and finally, thoughts and memories themselves. Borne by gentle gusts, the melody descended with the rain to it’s destiny, though it lay so far away.
How many times had this been? The tenth? The hundredth? Neither the hand that caressed the violin nor the wind, which remembered each concert as though it were only yesterday, knew.
Time and again, the beech trees standing as sentinel to a melody unheard, narrated their tale to those chasing the day. Sometimes, it seemed someone understood, pausing to heed the forest’s voice. Yet, they moved on, unable or unwilling to discern the words among the leaves. At times, the birds perched on the beech branches attempted to echo the violin’s song in the night, yet they too remained unheard. Ignored, akin to the sea’s roar and the wolves’ howls, though each tried to tell the same story.
No one remembered when the vague figure of a girl first appeared in the forest. She stood on the cliff, gazing seaward, her visage forever etched in the sea’s memory – beautiful yet marred by a sadness unknown to the world. The tears she shed among the waves remained forever as salt in the sea. Then, turning away from the seafoam, never to look back, she sat on a fallen log and stayed until the sun set and the first constellations appeared in the sky. And when the stars shone, she drew out her violin and touched the instrument with her bow.
And then she played of sorrow and hope, of autumn’s rains and winter’s chills, summer’s heat, and finally, of spring’s greenery. She played long and tirelessly, though the night was cold, and the rain matted her hair and soaked her dress. She played until the sun rose again on the horizon. Yet, none came save for the birds, awakened, listening to the melody; and the animals, lying under the trees in the clearing, spellbound by the music.
And so, each evening she came, sat on the log, and played. Sometimes people in the distance heard the beautiful melody, yet they dismissed it as merely the wind playing among the branches or as figments conjured by a weary mind.
Nothing changed. The young girl’s face grew wrinkled, her tears long since dried on her cheeks. But everything persisted as it was.

It’s weird translating my our work, but I did my best. If you notice any mistakes, don’t hesitate to comment, it’s also a valuable experience for me. 🙂
I wrote the original text on February 2, 2018.

The Extinguished Hope

The sound of the sea could always express both everything and nothing. As the lighthouse keeper gazed at the waves crashing against the towering cliffs, he pondered what emotions stirred the ocean’s depths.
Could these be the impressions of all the souls it had encountered? What did the breeze bring with it?
Hope, unfulfilled and distant? Or resignation, descending upon the weary and defeated?

He had been looking at the sea for decades, still wondering when and how it would end. He did not know why and how, or where that path he had entered would lead.
So what if he lit a lantern every evening, which burned like a bright torch, a guide for sailors, , in a world devoid of them? So What did it matter if people regarded him with respect, when he harboured none for himself?

When the waves had cast away the wreck of a small boat ashore, he stood for a long time, peering over the horizon, trying to see what his eyes could not.
But he saw nothing, no clues, no answers, only a cold, unyielding face, the face that the sea showed to anyone who dared to look.
And he recalled with profound sorrow.

Again, standing atop of the lighthouse, overwhelmed by the weight of many years of memories, pains, and worries, he stoked the fire with his old, tired hands.
He felt the warmth, heard the flames crackle, and saw the night’s darkness give way to light.
As he descended, a hopeful thought lingered in his heart: "Not tonight, I cannot bear it this evening." Fate, however, laughed confidently, gazing into his face and seeing his weariness.
The next ones awaited him. The hundredth – the Keeper remembered each one.
The faces of those he had sent away haunted him nightly; he envisioned them gazing towards the horizon, their voices echoing in his mind. He never knew their names; he never asked, unable to bear the weight of knowing the names of those he saw off as the last of the living.
That time there were two of them. Two dreamers to whom he had to bid farewell.

The boy was tall, with dark hair and strikingly vivid blue eyes, in which the Keeper could find the strength and desperation that he had seen in so many glances. There was resolution and hope on youngster’s face, hope that the heart of the island pulsed with. He was young, the Keeper suspected he was scarcely over sixteen.
The girl was shorter than her companion, yet her face displayed similar endurance. She seemed to be his opposite; she had bright red hair, a small face, and brown eyes, still wet with tears after farewell. Even younger than her companion, she had barely outgrown her childhood.
Gazing upon her, the keeper’s heart fractured anew, shattering into innumerable pieces.
They were likely the youngest of all who were given to him.
He was not the guardian of the lighthouse, bestowing light and hope upon lost sailors. He was a deceiver who, under the guise of hope, snuffed out the light of life.
He hated it.
"Are you sure about that?" he simply asked. He knew that no arguments would change anything, only increase his and their pain. He knew that no words could extinguish the hope that lived within them. But he had to try to halt them; these simple words were the only thing he had the strength to attempt.
"Yes." The answer was just as simple and certain, though full of pain.
The lighthouse keeper was not surprised. He gestured towards the boat, ready to set out on its next journey.
Only the stars and the Keeper witnessed how the two set sail, borne away by a strong current. Both raised their hands, bidding him goodbye, and vanished beyond the horizon. The moon was new that night, as though shying away from the unfolding tragedy. Only the keeper and the stars bore witness to the silent farewell.

He now stood, gazing at the wreck of the boat cast ashore by the waves.
Overwhelmed by the burden, he felt he could not continue, having sent a hundred crews to their demise; this first hundred would be his last.

He could not harbour hope as he boarded the boat.
That night, he sensed a reversal of roles; this time, he was the one laughing at fate.
Only the stars would bid farewell to the departing boat.
And the Moon, resplendent and full, bore silent witness.