The cello doesn’t sleep

By Amaira Sachdev

They said it was broken—
left to rot in the attic,
dust stitched into its seams—
but at 4am, it sings.
Not a tune.
A whimper,
like breath caught
between a hush
and a scream.
I played it once.
Strings snapped like nerves.
Something cold slid up my wrist
and whispered,
“Let me show you...”
Now he waits—
by the mirror,
behind the curtain—
his smile cracked like a warped string
trying to remember pain.
He hums when I practice.
Off-key.
Unsynchronized.
Like he’s trying to tune
his bones
into mine.
I tell myself I hate it—
that I won’t touch it again.
But each night,
my fingers reach
for the bow.
My sister laughs.
Says it’s all a joke.
But she won’t go near the attic.
She won’t say his name.
Last night, I didn’t touch it.
But still—
one long note scraped across the strings.
A warning.
Or maybe the first note
of the song that never ends.

Amaira Sachdev is a 13-year-old writer from India whose work explores the dark, quiet corners of human experience through poetry and short fiction. Her pieces often navigate themes of identity, emotion, and the uncanny, blending lyrical language with subtle narrative tension. She has been featured on Write the World and has submitted her work to The Atlantic. When she’s not writing, she can be found collecting stories in the everyday world, listening to music that sparks imagination, or plotting her next poem with meticulous care.