My Father's Lute

I put my father's lute into its case.  It felt like I was stealing, but I couldn't think of anything else that would remind me of them.  Both their hands had brushed its wood a thousand, thousand times.

Then I left.  I walked into the forest and kept going until dawn began to brighten the eastern edges of the sky.  As the birds began to sing, I stopped and set down my bag.  I brought out my father's lute and clutched it to my body.  Then I began to play.

My fingers hurt, but I played anyway.  I played until my fingers bled on the strings.  I played until the sun shone through the trees.  I played until my arms ached.  I played, trying not to remember, until I fell asleep.



The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss