i promise i'm trying to write plot this session

daily 11.03
prompt: @emililie' profile “爱!! ꫀmily ୨୧ istp / s.her→moa, swiftie”
words: 375

It is dusk and the London street is bustling, automobiles whizzing past on cobblestone-paved alleys. The bard is there, poet’s shirt billowing in the breeze, violin in her hands. She is playing a love song, although it is sharp in a way that feels strange, slices open soft arteries. The passers-by don’t always see her. You have to be looking to, the way she seeps into the soft stones, bleeds under skin.

Her violin case is open on the sidewalk. You stop and drop a coin in as you pass by. The probability that it lands on heads is undefined, splitting seconds. She picks it up when you leave, flips it in her fingers, pondering. She places it between the fabric of the case and the wood, tucks her violin away with the sun.

Autumn is crisp with daisies. There is a cafe down the road and its sign is written in all-lowercase, pastel green. She walks into the door, bell jingling behind her, steps up to the counter, orders one coffee with a dash of milk.

“That’ll be…” the cashier trails off into the mist.

She places the coin down instead. The cashier winks and places it under her cap, goes to get her coffee.

When the she leaves, she has a pen in her hand. It is dark outside now, the last remaining blue softening around the edges.

The next time you step in the store, no time has passed since she has left. Night is dawning and you have missed her again; maybe you will always miss her. She is the bard and you were only the seascape; she will write, you will not forget. The muse is a derivative—tangent once.

The next day, she is there again. She has written a song about you. You drop a coin as you walk by, the lucky coin, as it always is.

You do not notice her. You do not notice that she has stopped playing, that her violin sits silent in the case. The coin drops, clatters—you realize your mistake too late. The coin’s sharp edge slices through horsehair. The wood splinters. Your eyes meet hers in terror.

You stop. You look down at the broken violin, but she is looking at you.