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From my balcony, I had an almost perfect view.

A couple of days back, he had moved into the apartment downstairs, just across from mine. The apartment that had been empty for almost a year now, and the entertainment was all the more appreciated.

I still didn’t know who he was, or where he was coming from. Then again, I wasn’t much of a mingling neighbour, so this would probably be as intimate as we would get anyway. I didn’t need a name to enjoy my evening. I was happy with just sitting there, glass of ice cold lemonade in hand, randomly peeking down at the open door apparently leading to his living room.

In the still of night, he was sitting there, in the dark, by himself again. The dim, warm light in the room traced his silhouette out on the black backdrop. His tanned skin seemed to glow in the room, as if it was covered with gold dust.

Like the night before, and the one before that, he held a guitar in his hands. I couldn’t say if it was the way he held it, or the music that he pulled out of the instrument, but it looked much like if he embraced a woman. His fingers strummed carefully and gently pinched the strings, creating melodies that floated out of his flat, to dance in our inner yard.

He mostly played sad songs. Well, that, I was guessing by the tone of his voice, since he sang in a foreign language I couldn’t put my finger on. It didn’t matter… The sorrow was just that much more heart crushing, remaining so secret, although he sang for anyone to hear. For me, at least, and I wouldn’t get tired of the soft hum of his voice, even if he played some of the tunes over and over again.

One of them, in particular, he seemed to be very fond of. It felt like a lullaby, perhaps a romantic one. Probably one that would have made me cry, had I known what it was about. It gave me chills everytime he struck the first chords, and his voice always went a bit lower and warmer as he sang it. It felt like a lullaby, but not one you would sing to convince a lover to stay… It wasn’t a cry for forgiveness. I just could tell that it was a lullaby to himself.

His golden specter was a little more huddled up, and his fingers clumsier on the chords… Which didn’t ruin anything, in fact amplifying the sad feel to his solo performance.

And he kept strumming and humming in the dark.

Sometimes a thought flew by, making me wonder if he had noticed me, on the balcony. I wasn’t hiding the least bit, although I made myself discreet, not to shy him out. I wondered if he wanted an audience, or if he just couldn’t care less. Could he even imagine making a stranger’s eyes teary with his Babbel Tower blurry tales of loss, and longing?

At times, I envied a woman capable of inspiring such melodious odes. And when his voice almost broke, I imagined taking that guitar’s place to console him. Could his fingers play on me, with the same wit?

But, like the night before, and the one before that, the singing came to an end. I peeked down, to see him gently put the instrument down, stretching his glowing silhouette out. He stood there for a moment, like a golden ghost on the edge of the garden. Stepping back in the darkness of his apartment, he disappeared behind the closing door.

The end of my private concert under the moon.

No ”encores” allowed.



Via today’s Word of the Day Challenge: Melodious

6 thoughts on “Strumming…

    1. Thank you, Simon ๐Ÿ™‚ I am so glad you enjoyed this story, as it is really special to me! I enjoyed bringing it to life so much… It is a great pleasure to know it resonated with you ๐Ÿ™‚ xx


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