Just one violin. Chord, answer, that downward pull—nothing cushioning it.

There it is under the hand again. Same ground coming back, already a little altered.

Faster writing now. One instrument starting to sound like several parts taking turns.

Upper line keeps flickering, and the ground won't leave underneath it.

Register opens here. Phrases get more air, but that earlier severity is still in the string.

Still in this brighter stretch. Same repeated ground, just with more height inside it.

A tiny clearing—barely a breath—then the line picks up again.

Another brief break. Then the bow is back in the work.

Quick figuration, firm path. The brightness wasn't an escape; it's the old pattern from another angle.

Chords and line getting more declarative now. Heavier landings, less private.

It's narrowing. Little pockets ease off, then get drawn straight back in.

Sharper breaks. These last gestures don't feel casual.

Another cut, then the accounting keeps arriving in short strokes.

And it stops. One violin carried the ground, the argument, the brightness, the tension—so the silence still feels full.