The wind was relentless that morning – the kind that turns umbrellas inside out and makes you lean into it just to stay upright. I was waiting for the 06:34, tightening my scarf, when I noticed them: two figures on the platform, locked together against the gale. Her hair whipped wild around them both, catching briefly on his coat. And still they remained. A small pocket of calmness in all that chaos, until the train pulled in with its mechanical insistence, and separation became inevitable.There I sit, my thoughts drifting as they often do – north this time, to a small town at the very edge of Germany, where my grandparents had lived. My grandmother had a cello that sat in the corner of her living room. After she died, no one played it. Beautiful instrument - graceful lines, dark wood catching whatever light the windows offered. Yet a cello is not meant to stand alone. It's made to be held, nestled between knees, drawn against the body's warmth until the bow's patient friction wakes the strings and coaxes the hollow inside to bloom into sound. Without such embrace, a cello is merely emptiness shaped in wood and wire.I blinked. The doors were opening, indifferent as always. The wind pushed against me, cold and impersonal. I kept walking anyway.