She sang to me, her words reverberating like broken strings on a Spanish guitar. But softly - softer than any old guitar could sing. Every broken note filling the empty places in my broken heart until it was whole again. The song carried through the day and wrapped around the glowing stars at night. In the morning, she sang me into existence. But all songs must end. And in ending, this song flung my ribs open like a bird cage and let the ghosts of her melody fly from the holes time could not heal. I lost myself searching for the forgotten memory of her voice. Time was the last string, and she broke that too.