As I stepped out of the cream-colored house that morning, I heard the voice of my deceased mother in the susurrus wind. It came from afar, across the field, perhaps; so fresh, so sweet, so alluring, and accompanied by a haunting tune. The harsh wind slapped my face, and yet it brought my mother’s voice– her voice and her violin. I closed my eyes and saw it clear: her beautiful face, her tangled black hair, those huge beady eyes, exploding with passion, and her fingertips; so nimble, so practiced, dancing across the ebony fingerboard. I kept my eyes shut. I didn’t want to open them. I could see her, oh, I could see her so well. And I could see my own violin, resting on my shoulder as I attempted to imitate her pure sound. I heard my mother’s voice wash over me once more, delivered by strands of swaying grass which flickered hypnotizingly to and fro in the wind. ​Adagio, ​my mother would command, using the old Italian music term. ​Slowly, my dear. Slow down. Adagio. I watched complacently as the door slammed behind me. And then I ran. I ran across the empty field, trekking through the forest, passing the stream where I’d once collected smooth pebbles and stored them in my pockets, chasing aimlessly for my mother, that voice, her music… Adagio. ​I heard the whisper again. ​Slow down, my child. You’re running out of steam. I looked up. I had reached the middle of the woods. I’d never been here before. Jagged branches glared down at me daringly, and piercing howls filled the murky air. It was dark, darker than I’d ever known. Where are you, mother? I sprang to my feet and kept on running. I couldn’t hear my breath wheezing in and out of my body, or the cries of hatred I muttered at branches that pierced my vulnerable flesh. No, all I could hear was my mother’s voice. It was stronger than I’d ever heard it; even when she was living. Slow down, my child. It’s Adagio. You’re running out of steam. You’re headed nowhere, and far too fast. My heart palpitated faster and faster, ticking upwards like that big wooden metronome I’d burned with the old violin. The woods grew darker and darker as I ran, half mezmorized, half conscious, onwards and onwards. Then suddenly I was falling, fallen; sprawled desperately on the ground. I hit a pile of leaves with a crash, my eyes darting from one threatening tree to the other in panic. A dark owl hooted, swooping right over me, and I recoiled in alarm. And then I saw her. “Mother?” I brushed leaves off of myself in the darkness, pushing myself to my feet. I could see her, sitting on a fallen log, her long black hair dancing down behind her. Moonlight shone through the woods. I hadn’t remembered it to be night time. “Mother!” I rushed forward towards her, my arms outstretched. ​Adagio. ​I could hear her voice again, but I shook it off. There she was right before me. I knew it was her. I just knew. As I uttered another pressing cry, my voice faltered a bit as my mother turned around– slowly, far too slowly– and then I gasped. A slip of moonlight haunted her gastly face, and two empty eye sockets greeted me. Her lips were smooth but lacking color, and I watched in horror as they twisted themselves upwards into a snarl– ​slowly ​.