The first notes were slow, a haunting sound in the old abandoned theatre. The sound of the violin echoed loudly, every note hanging heavily in the air. They trembled as the cracking walls did, and the shadows dancing through hall seemed darker than before. The very air thickened with something unspoken.

When it happened, the change was almost unnoticed. Notes became shorter, slightly faster, faintly louder. They joined the shadows in their dance, writhing in graceful movements. The gloom that cursed the hall was lifting, if only slightly, the soft glow chasing it from the room. The cold air was seeping away.

The theatre slowly reawakened.

The shadows transformed before the melody did. Movements became sharper, mere flickers against the growing orange light. The violin sang of rebirth and rejuvenation. Warmth permeated old surfaces, paint peeling away faster and renewing the ruined walls. Pillars that stood strong once, now creaked and crackled, adding their own beat to the flowing music.

And then there was only light.

The melody became an ode to fiery desire, the tune bending and twisting like the world around it. The stage itself gave in to the sound, moving and flowing in harmony with the music. The crackling came faster now. The creaking and crashing lent a pulsing beat to the harsh trilling notes. The comforting warmth became a scorching heat, the air a black cloud of pulsing need.

What was once a lifeless body was now writhing and dancing, music its blood, rhythmic crashes its heartbeat. It was a passion all consuming, reviving and destructive. It blazed against the night sky.

And all the while the music played.

It played as glass warbled and shattered.
It played as the walls curled inwards.
It played as the roof finally caved.

Heat unbearable, air unbreathable. One final note, a climax.

A string snapped.