The slim black coat shielded her from the cold as she walked through the snowy woods to her practice spot. With one hand she held her coat closed near her neck, an attempt at shielding herself from the biting wind, and in the other was a black case. Upon her arrival to the spot, she set the case on the ground and brushed the snow off a rock, clearing a place to sit.
She knelt down to the case, undoing the clasps that held it closed. She pulled out two black objects. She raised the larger of the two to her chin. The moon cast an eerie glow and the snowflakes fluttered lazily around the leafless trees. She sat on the forest floor, playing a haunting tune on her ebony violin.
The song started out slow, as she played it from memory alone. The somber tune travelled through the woods, though there was no-one around to hear it. Her expert hands, one holding the bow, the other manipulating the strings, moved methodically, the few weeks of practice already drilled into them. She weaved slightly with the tune.
The wind began to die down a little, as if it was listening to the music. The branches swayed in the lightening winter breeze, bending to and fro almost in time with the tune. No birds or animals were about, so the woman's only audience was the softly falling snowflakes, the biting wind, and the tall, leafless trees.
The song sped up a bit, rising in intensity. One would almost think there were other violins playing in the background, yet it was only her. Her eyes were fixed on the instrument, but just down the neck, there was a large, twisting oak tree. The song she was playing was "The Hanging Tree." That oak could very well have been one.
As the song intensified, the volume rose, and soon, it was loud enough that anyone within a mile could've heard it clearly, even with the snow. The fast tune held little of the somberness that the song had when she started it. She hummed along with it, a sound all but drowned out by the violin. That was fine with her, though.
The whole forest was silent now. Unnaturally so. It was as if the whole world had paused. Stopped to listen to the haunting tine that she was playing. The wind had stopped completely, and the trees were dead still. She thought that was extremely apropos, considering the song.
She finished off the last notes, not with a dramatic crescendo, but with a fadeout. They hung in the air, but the snowy forest was soon plunged into silence once more. Only the wind, which had started moments after she finished, whistling through the trees and the branches bowing to it served as any semblance of applause.
She carefully placed the ebony violin back in its case, along with the bow. She closed the case quietly, reverently, snapping the clasps shut. She then picked up the case, and holding the top of her coat closed against the biting January wind, Natasha Romanoff walked back to the little cabin she was staying.