Violin.

It always starts with a string. A soft vibration in the air that you only feel when you are close enough. The bus shelter stands there like a large, resting instrument, its sound box wide and shiny, its veins spreading across the wood like a score. Finding the opening—that is the first challenge. Because a violin has no clear entrance. Or maybe it is the other way around: maybe all the places where the wood opens up are a possible entrance. But which string do you have to touch to be allowed through?

I move slowly along the wood, my fingers gliding over the smooth surface. A subtle resonance beneath my fingertips. The bridge vibrates as I brush against it; a vibration that travels through the box, as if it were trying to say itself: here, this is where you need to be. But as soon as I move toward the vibrating spot, the sound fades again, the opening disappearing like a chord fading into the air.

Others are already waiting inside. I can see them through the thin f-shaped cutouts in the wood. Some sit quietly on the bridge of the violin, others lean against the strings, their bodies balanced by the tension of the instrument. They look at me, but no one gives any instructions. The search is personal. No one else can teach you how to find the opening of a violin. You have to feel it yourself.

And then—a flageolet. A high, almost fragile sound, somewhere to my right. I turn, step forward, and feel the wood open beneath my hand. The entrance is sudden, as if I’ve accidentally hit just the right note. I step inside, the wood closing behind me with a soft sound of a falling chord. I sit. The tension in the strings beneath me vibrates softly through my body.

Then the bus arrives. The sound of the engine clashes strangely with the subtle harmony of the booth. The pitch changes. The wood resonates differently, as if preparing for a new chord. And here comes the next challenge: the exit. Because you don't just let go of a violin.

The engine’s pitch rises, the booth vibrates, and I feel the bridge beneath me begin to open. I stand up, take a step forward—but it’s not enough. My hand slides along the strings, feeling the wood contract. Only when I gently tap a string does a gap open on the left. The booth sings softly as I step out, as if saying goodbye with a final chord.

Outside, the sound fades. The bus stops. I look back once more and see the booth slowly closing. The vibrations die away, the wood relaxes. But somewhere in the silence I still hear the echo of a chord that has nestled itself in my body forever.