Pity Fiddle

The lights had long been turned off and the people gone. Debris scattered the ground, candy wrappers, apple peels, sticky sweet sticks that had been shoved in the mouths of children. All of them tumbling in the warm breeze. A stage in the distance sat illuminated by the backdrop of a low hanging moon, full and shining. A young man sat and watched it. His legs swinging back and forth, a breeze picking up stray strands of his dirty blonde hair. The boy picked up the fiddle, brought it to his chin, and scraped the bow across the strings. A haunted melody of times past flowed from his fingers. A pity nobody could hear screams over sound.