It was late, very late. Silver shards of moonlight led me twixt trees and bushes then into a clearing.
I felt hot breath on my neck. I turned and held out my hand, but saw no one. I heard music, a melody sweet as honey. Looking up I saw her, atop a stone tower caressing a fiddle with a bow, her blonde locks and satin gown floating in the breeze. The door was ajar, the steps beckoned me. A voice called me. No harm in entering I supposed.
Up and up I climbed, the music becoming louder, faster, frantic. I reached the top and it stopped. I was alone in the silence.
The sound of birdsong woke me from my slumber. I reached out but there was nobody beside me. On the bedside table sat a violin. As I closed my eyes again the bird’s whistling gave way to the smooth sound of strings.
Was it a dream? Or real. I couldn’t tell, nor ever I shall.
For The Sunday Whirl where the given words are hot, tell, treat, alone, late, pass, breath, harm, honey, tower, call and fiddle. I used all but one.