Salve

In the center of some abandoned midwestern town stood a water tower, tall and unyielding to nature's lashing winds and thunderous storms. On the outside, its white paint was chipped, revealing steel aged with rust. And within, its surface was covered in layers of vulgar art and scribbled messages. The walls couldn't read, but they knew that the writing likely wasn't marked out of their appreciation.

The tower yearned. For what, it didn't know. It wasn't meant to be a sentient thing--even though it had become so--instead planted to serve a small, once-thriving people. But they grew old--aged, as it had--and they were not made of the sort of metal and concrete that could withstand the brutality of the world. So, the tower watched them wither away, until no people were left in the lovely little homes and swishing grasses, the only evidence of their existence being the four-legged structure looming overhead.

At one point, the town's name was written there, but the tower could no longer remember what it said, the letters ripped away by the harsh breath of a restless sky and scraping hail. Lately, it noticed, that sky seemed more devastated; it raged and sobbed and battered--sometimes day and night. The loss of its admirers brought forth the absence of those red and orange hues the tower often loved to watch fade into darkness. But the tower had no voice, and it could not tell the sky that it was not alone.

So, the tower, dried and empty and voiceless, could only endure the tantrums from above. And it waited for whoever came, hoping for another kind and wrinkled face to gaze upon. But in recent years, the only eyes it saw were full of youth and mischief and rebellion, peering into its empty chest and climbing within. And the hands along with them pelted the tower with stones. The laughter that echoed sounded as if it knew it shouldn't be there, but decided to be anyway.

The tower hated those young eyes, aggressive hands, and taunting laughter. Hated that it could do nothing as they came and went. So, when a girl crawled into the empty cavity where water and joy once swirled together, it wanted nothing more than to finally crash and crumble, finished with the anger and despair.

But she appeared with a tool made of wood and strings. The tower hesitated, waiting for whatever infliction the girl would begin. But she simply sat, and the tower peered closer into eyes that were young...old. Young, and old. As if she were one of the tower's beloved, wrinkly faces despite her unblemished cheeks and full lips. And she seemed to take the tower in, swallowing every detail and imperfection with those new yet mature eyes. What had she seen to have such experience in those rings of green and blue?

The tower soon discovered that the girl was a weaver. Not one of fabric, but of the songbird Mrs. Finley so frequently spoke of to her farmer husband. The songbird of a tropical world in a place called Africa. She did not look like any bird the tower had seen, but it had never known a place called Africa, either. It must have been her, the songbird. The weaver.

There was no other explanation for it as she used her hands to begin crafting such music. Her fingers brushed the strings on that tool, and it did as she commanded, humming and coaxing a melody so rich that the tower felt it through its stairs, its inlet, its drain. When she sang, there were words of solace and redemption. For the forgotten places of her world.

The music flowed through the tower like a gentle breeze, caressing its belabored walls. Each note was a message of hope, compassion, and understanding. Those walls trembled, as if recognizing a long-lost friend.

The paint sprayed onto its surface, which the tower believed to be permanent, slowly melted away, replaced by the delicate, haunting sounds that wove through every crack and crevice. If the tower had skin, the music would have been a thread sewing old, gaping wounds. Its concrete was a desert, absorbing every chord with desperate thirst.

By the time it was over, the girl had dug into a pack and pulled out something soft and warm. Though it could never feel such a thing, the tower knew of exhaustion and sleep. And it recognized it in the girl as she closed her eyes and did not wake until the sun rose once more.

When she finally did, the girl played one more song.

And the tower relished in every second.

It did not have ears, but it was glad that it could listen.