the audience member

her face is obscured, a halo of sepia.  but you can see her, she knows.  there is a connection between you, of course.  you've touched her, and you can feel the blush in her hands left by the applause.  the audience member never leaves (you) - she is still there, in the third row, on the left, long after the room has grown dim and awkward with its emptiness.  she protects you from its blank stare, her gaze a puppyish spotlight following you wherever you may go.  she is there in the shadows, keeping you a-lit, and she knows you can see her too.

the violinist

she wears vintage dresses.  every day she irons them into classic symphonies. so she tends to leave notes everywhere.  at night she can't sleep because her sheets are covered in music.