Musical

I lived in chains until the music freed me.

Most in the village can't hear the music like I do, their ears stuffed to bursting with petty concerns. But they hear it too. I know they do.

He comes from the forest at night, and plays his pipes from the abandoned grain tower. Not the bombastic opera music from the capital, or the simple dancing music of the village dances, but something that slips between emotions, drags you by the hand as each step takes you further from the mind's surface, always threatening to leave you in the darkest recesses of your own soul.

I stay up all night listening, and when the morning comes, I am not tired.

Most in the village can't hear the music like I do, but they do hear it. The baker hums snippets of it to herself when she's not paying attention, making more meat pies than loaves of bread. The butcher cuts to its beat, smiling as he methodically slaughters more livestock than he strictly needs to. One of the mayor's boys bit his brother's ear off. I think the children hear it better than their parents.

Tonight, I'll sneak out after lights out, crawl out to the old tower. When dawn comes and he returns to the forest, I shall follow the tune of his pipes, the clip-clop of his hooves.