The Violin in the Attic

When Burak's family moved to a bigger flat in Gaziantep, he volunteered to clear out the attic. Behind a pile of old boxes, he found a dusty black case. Inside was a violin with a small crack in the wood. "That belonged to your grandfather," his mother said when he showed it to her. "He played it at weddings when he was young. Then his hands became stiff, and he stopped." Burak had never heard his grandfather play. He had only seen him sitting quietly by the window, drinking tea. The next morning, Burak took the violin to a repair shop near the bazaar. The owner, a patient man called Mr Demir, said he could fix the crack, but it would take two weeks. "Do you play?" he asked. "No," Burak admitted, "but I'd like to try." When the violin came back, Burak's grandfather was visiting for the weekend. Burak handed it to him without saying anything. The old man held it carefully, put it under his chin and closed his eyes. Slowly, a simple melody filled the room. Burak's mother wiped her eyes. "Would you teach me?" Burak asked. His grandfather smiled. "My hands are slow now, but if you practise every day, I'll show you everything I know."