Teleyn lay on her stomach in front of the fire, tracing the smooth wood of her new harp. Her index finger followed the curve of each vine and leaf that crawled and twirled itself through the wood and around the main body of the instrument, admiring Fastdred's craftsmanship.
Plucking the strings gently, the harp began filling Dawnhall with pleasant echoes of sound. Similarly, the notes rang clearly through Teleyn's mind, carrying the melody of memories. Images of gardens surfaced as she pulled on the chords that Fastdred had taught her. Flowers waving in the wind and blanketing the air in their sweet scent, green leaves and vegetables climbing towards the sky, vibrant fruits glinting in the light of the sun.
But in the next moment, her finger slipped and struck the wrong note, creating a discordant sound. The warm harmonious images vanished and were replaced by a vision of apples rolling downhill toward a stream. Deep red apples she had picked for her parents...rolling...going to waste...lost...
