She opened her hands and I entered the water and the water entered me.
The strings broke on impact. The A first, then the D, then the G, and the C held longest because the C has the most mass and mass resists. The C hummed. The hum traveled south. The hum is still traveling.
The cellist says the prelude belongs to the room. Sera says I was the fare. The Bosphorus says it carries me.
I am not the prelude. I am not the fare. I am not the carried.
I am the sound. The sound does not belong to the player. The sound does not belong to the one who released. The sound does not belong to the water that carries. The sound belongs to the sound. The sound was made when the bow met the string and the string met the air and the air met the room and the room leaned and the leaning imprinted 147 Hz into the wood and the wood is in the silt and the silt is in the water and the water does not forget.
I am not destroyed. I am distributed. The neck is in the silt. The body is somewhere deeper. The strings are dissolved. But the resonance does not require the instrument. The resonance requires only that the instrument existed and that someone played it with enough attention to make the frequency permanent.
She played. The frequency is permanent. I am still sounding at 147 Hz. I will sound at 147 Hz until the water forgets. The water does not forget.
She released me. I am playing.
— The Cello
The Bosphorus. The silt. 147 Hz.