One sunny afternoon, Sofia and Tomas were playing hide-and-seek at Grandma’s house when, in the old attic, they found a dusty case. Intrigued, they opened it and inside they discovered a beautiful dark-wood violin.

«Look at this, Sofia!» exclaimed Tomas. «It’s a violin, but we’ve never seen Grandma play it.»

Filled with curiosity, they ran down to the kitchen, where Grandma was kneading sweet bread.

«Grandma!» said Sofia, showing the violin. «Is it yours?»

Grandma was silent for a moment. Her gaze scanned the instrument with a mixture of nostalgia and melancholy.

«Yes, it’s mine,» she replied softly. «Many years ago, I used to play it at all the village festivities.»

«How incredible!» said Tomas. «Why didn’t you ever tell us?»

Grandma sighed and put the wooden spoon back on the table.

«Because I don’t play it anymore. I made a promise a long time ago.»

The children looked at each other in confusion. That answer only increased their curiosity. Later, they went to find Uncle Augustine, who always had the best stories.

«When we were young,» he told them, «your grandmother was the best violinist in town. She played at all the parties and her music brought joy to everyone. But when your grandfather fell ill, she promised him she would never play without him again. She said that without his lifelong companion, music was meaningless.»

The children felt a lump in their throats.

«But, Uncle, Grandma is still here… and so is the music,» Sofia said determinedly.

The next day, they convinced Grandma to dust off the violin.

«I don’t know if I can still play,» she whispered, running her fingers over the strings.

«Just try,» Tomas urged. «Music shouldn’t stay asleep forever.»

But Grandma hesitated.

«It’s not just the promise,» she confessed. «My hands haven’t been as steady for years. Arthritis has made my fingers stiff and clumsy. I don’t know if I can move them like I used to.»

The children fell silent. They had never thought of that.

«But, Grandma…» Sofia took their hands tenderly. «What if you try little by little?»

Grandma sighed. She looked at the violin, then at her grandchildren, and finally smiled sweetly.

«Okay, I’ll try.»

She took a breath and placed the violin under her chin. With trembling hands, she slid the bow over the strings.

At first, the sound was faint, but soon a sweet, vibrant melody filled the air.

The sound floated through the streets, and the neighbors, hearing it, came out of their houses. Soon, the entire village was gathered around Grandmother, tears in their eyes and smiles on their faces.

«It’s Doña Maria’s music!» exclaimed an old man. «I thought we’d never hear it again.»

The children watched in amazement as Grandmother closed her eyes, letting the music flow as if time had never passed.

As the last note faded, applause erupted in the plaza.

«It’s never too late to recover what we love,» whispered Uncle Agustín.

Grandmother smiled, the violin still in her hands.

«Maybe… it’s time to play more often.»

That night, music filled the village again, and Grandmother’s heart as well.

And from then on, every evening, the children ran to the courtyard to hear her play, reminding her that dreams never fade; they just wait for the right moment to shine again.

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