The Mystical Workshop

         Every night before sleeping, Angelo would look out of his bedroom window and wonder about the things that could possibly be in the workshop that was just beside their home. He has never been in it and there were no windows for him to peek through. The place has been locked for as long as he could remember. He was told that his father spent most of his time there, crafting instruments, when he was still alive.
         Angelo could barely remember his father but almost all the grown-ups in town knew him. His father was a famous craftsman and the instruments he made were sold only to a selected few. 
         “He was a tall man with dark wavy hair and lovely brown eyes,” his mother would say. “He looks like me, then?” was Angelo’s usual reply.
         When his father died, Angelo’s mother began to work for the flower shop across the street. Angelo noticed that even though she would always come home tired from work, she would still diligently prepare their supper.
         But one day, Angelo’s mother became ill. Angelo looked after her, and his grandmother, too, dropped by to prepare their meals. Every night, Angelo prayed.
“Please make my mother well.”
         Angelo spent the following day by his mother’s side and noticed that she was getting weaker. It was becoming difficult for her to speak. The boy was beginning to worry. 
         One evening, when he was already in his bed, a beautiful melodious music woke him up. He looked at his clock—it was almost midnight.
         Where was the music coming from? Angelo got up and searched for it.
         He crept out of his room as silent as a cat, and down the stairs to the kitchen. “The music is coming from the workshop,” he said to himself. He slowly opened their front door, leapt out, and gently shut it. It was cold outside. He shivered. 
         He continued walking. Slowly and cautiously, he approached the workshop. The music was becoming louder in every step—and then he stopped. He could hear voices. Who could possibly be there in his father’s old workshop?
         “They could be thieves!” he thought. He rushed to the wooden door and tried to force it open. To his surprise, someone opened the door for him. It creaked.
         A tall bearded man looked at him sternly. Angelo noticed the sheet music in his hands. 
         “What’s all that banging for?” the man asked. Angelo did not reply. Instead, he tried to examine the room but two other men blocked his view. They were all dressed funny.
         “Who’s our guest?” the man with the guitar asked. 
         “Who are you, kid?” the third man with the clarinet inquired. 
         “I…am…Angelo,” Angelo hesitatingly replied. He gathered up all his courage and finally asked, “Who are you?”
         “We are music,” the bearded man answered.
         The guitarist then approached him and asked, “Did you say that you’re Angelo? You sure look like your dad.” And the two other men nodded in agreement. 
         “You all knew my father?” Angelo became excited. “Tell me everything about him! What was he like? Please tell me!”
         “Of course we knew him,” the one with the clarinet said, “Everyone in town knew him.”
         The bearded man beckoned Angelo in.
         The workshop was full of boxes that were left unopened for years. The place was dusty, and there were spider webs in the corners of the ceiling. There were different instruments too; some were on the shelves while others were hanging on the workshop’s walls. 
         There were guitars, violins, flutes, mandolins, clarinets, and other instruments that Angelo could not identify. Sheet music were scattered on the floor. As Angelo was examining the place, a particular instrument captured his attention. 
         The violin that was lying on a wooden table had a perfectly black neck attached to its well-polished maple body. Angelo could not take his eyes off the strings—they were gold.
         When he turned to ask the three men about it, he realized that they had disappeared. Their instruments were left lying on the floor where they had stood. Angelo was alone in the workshop with the violin in his hands. “My father’s masterpiece in my hands…” he said as he was in awe. Tears began to trickle down his cheeks.
         Angelo tried to play it. He did not know how, but he managed to sound a tune. The violin seemed to have a life of its own. It seemed to sing its own song.
         That morning, the boy became eager to play the instrument to his sick mother. 
“Where did you get that?” his mother asked, surprised. “Your father worked on that violin for years. He said he wanted to give it to you when you are old enough to play it…” 
         Instead of replying, the boy smiled at her. He played the enchanted violin for his beloved mother and felt as though his father was nearby. As the music filled the room, Angelo’s mother was beginning to feel better. To their surprise, she was completely healed in the next few days.
         Since then, days and nights would be filled with his music. Through his violin, Angelo lived as his father did. He began doing performances and everyone in town was eager to watch him play. For some reason—no one knew exactly why—they would be filled with much joy whenever the boy played. His music seemed to have a life of its own. Angelo’s music healed.