As she peers out the window, a cloud of fog swarms near her view, leaving the objects of her sight mere shadows. She turns herself around, back in the vision of her cozy room, and with her wrinkled fingers, she carefully picks out a disc from her classical collection. It has been a long time since this one has been played, she thought, as she gently blows off the dust that had settled on the disc. Valse Sentimentale by Ptyor IIyich Tchaikovsky, were the words engraved on the label.
With great gentleness, she places the disc onto the phonograph, and positions the needle onto the former. And a few wobbly turns of the handle later, the disc starts to revive. First, with a sharp, raspy sound, until soothing strokes of a harp can be perceived through the haziness. Then, the slightly wavering, but oh so alluring melody of a violin drowns off all other sounds, and even the lighted candles in the room seem to be swaying to the beautiful valse.
She sighs, and unleashes herself on the nearest couch. With one side of her face gently cupped in her hand, a part of her separates from herself, and it dances to the nearest ballroom.
She is leaning on his shoulder, their feet weaving to the melody of the piece. It seems like the torment was only a few moments ago, but it is nearly forgotten, as the music is lively and she is with him. With him. He brushes off a wisp of her shining chestnut hair off of her young and glowing face, and looks piercingly into her eyes. She looks back, the glimmer of her eyes acting as her smile. Then, she closes them, wanting to stay like this forever, but she is too late. The music has gone awfully blue, and she's trying to grasp her hand in his, but she can't, she can't, and their fingers separate, separate... And everything around her is spinning, spinning and detaching, just like her heart.
Startingly, she opens her eyes. Those eyes that have held so many tears, so much pain. Those eyes that were too weak to keep the tears, the pain, and were forced to unleash them into the rest of her body.
Just as she finishes regaining her awareness, the pieces winds up softly, until only the cracklings of the disc and the steady voice of the violin can be heard.
Until only her weeping heart,
her weeping heart,
Can be distinguished from the silence.