The sound grows louder as I near the radio tower marking my map. I cross the rickety bridge and the sound takes me. Never have I heard such a noise. To call it noise is insulting. It's more like a hymn made by something I can't place. I am snapped back to reality when my knocking at the front door halts the performance.

An elderly woman in her seventies answers the door. She is holding something I have never seen before. It looks to be made of wood. As I look closer I see 4 thin strings.

Agatha Egglebrecht contacted me through a courier. She said I should come and pay her a visit and listen to her play some music. When I first received the letter I dismissed the idea. I didn't really see the value in music anymore. Not in this world.

I realize now how wrong I was.

-XXX-

So glad you made! it Please come in. I was worried you wouldn't be interested in coming to see an old lady and her violin out in the wastes. Thought maybe it wouldn't be book worthy.

/Violin?/

You've never head or seen one? I suppose they are quite rare. I made this one myself. Music has been in my blood for many generations.

No one taught me. I really had to learn it for myself but like I said, it's in my blood. My great-great granddaughter was the prodigy Hilda Egglebrecht, one of the greatest violinists of her time. She had been selected as a resident for Vault 92. I really wish I knew more about her – or what came of that violin she kept closer to her heart than anything,

My husband and I settled here when we were very young. We were married when we were pretty much kids. He was a good man. Built this entire shelter for us. We isolated ourselves out here but that was fine. We didn't need anyone else. We had each other.

When he died it meant things had to change for me. I had to rely on others for assistance, something I had never done. That's when the caravans began making a stop her on their routes.

Much of what I play I write myself but if one of the traveling caravans happens to come across some sheet music, they know to snatch it up for me.

They are the real heroes out there. They keep me alive out here in my tiny spot of paradise. I repay them the only way I can. With music. I must admit I have a bit of a crush on that nice young man, Crow. He is particularly kind to me. Always gives me a little extra if I play his favourite songs. I make sure to play them when I know he is doing his weekly run.

I do these radio broadcasts throughout the day. They can be heard throughout the Capitol Wasteland. It's how I contribute, you know? I'm not saying what Three-Dog or that President Eden have to say is less important or that what I do is better, I am simply catering to a different need in people's lives, a need to rekindle our passion for the arts.

There is so much killing out there. People need something other then the clatter of bullets or screams of terror. They need music. Real music.

I remind everyone out there where we came from. Remind them of their humanity. We were once sophisticated beings with the power to create, not just destroy. That's what I do. That's how I contribute.

Look at me. Rambling on like my story is so fascinating. What I bet you want is to hear me play.

/She cradles the instrument under her chin and lifts some sort of roped stick to its strings.

The sound is enchanting. I am in a trance. The radio signals that play the same few songs over and over cannot compare to what I am hearing. With each note I am carried far away from this dreaded hellhole. I am mesmerized. Captivated. I never want her to stop playing. One moment, the drawn out notes fill the room with sorrow and I swear the instrument is crying. Then, the tune picks up and I find myself tapping my foot and smiling as she is. I have no idea how much time has passed but when she stops, I want to call out for more but I hold myself back. She looks a bit tired./

I can usually carry on for longer but I have been playing all day. I am a little worn out.

/I watch Agatha sigh. Is something wrong? I ask/

This here violin has been with me for many many years but I'm afraid it wont be very good for much longer. Can't keep the darn thing in tune. One day, I hope to get ahold of my great-great granddaughters violin … the one in Vault 92. I know it must still be there. I bet I can make the divines cry if I had that instrument.

/I can tell the elderly woman is getting tired and is too polite to ask me to leave so I rise from my chair. I thank her for the personal concert and open to the door. Before I leave she takes my hand in hers./

Don't let the music in your heart die. Music can be whatever you create … so long as it's yours to share.

/I don't full understand but I smile and thank her once more before I leave./