Strings.

As her fingers moved across the strings, touching them, one by one, knowing them, cajoling them to begin again, teasing their thing, making a statement on and on, it hit her.

She would not be able to play again. That the thought could strike her then, like that, when she unarmed and still in love, would be fragile and unseeked. But she did. Realize. And the thought by itself was a relief, like never before. And without a second thought, she began to weep, hysterically, to and fro, banging her head against the pillow, silently punching it, not knowing why she felt so relieved. But she did nonetheless, and finally, she could move on. Sweet release.