The ponies all paid rapt attention as a seafoam green pony as she plucked the strings to a lyre. The old, beaten lyre was a mere shade of it's former glory, faded golden handles and strings fraying at their tips. The mare plucking them had her eyes shut, lost amid a sea of music that she streamed through the lyre. Her white and seafoam green mane fell down over her eyes, split only by her horn. On her flank rested a cutie mark of a golden lyre, the very one she was playing.

The stage was little more than a raised section of wood in the corner of a room. The mare sat on a wooden stool that creaked as she shifted her position, not really the polished ebony chair in the concert hall she imagined herself in. In truth, she was far from where she wanted to be, a dingy old tavern that was the local watering hole in her backwater hometown. The ponies who sat and listened to her performance were not the cultural elite, nor were they the princesses of the sun and moon. Instead, they were the overworked townsponies who toiled away five days a week to come here and drown their sorrows.

Silence reigned as the mare played, her song speaking what they were all feeling. The quick, shrill notes of each string, the echo of the song off the wooden walls, everything she did was captivating to them. Ponies drank their cider and licked their salt quietly, allowing the mare to play. The barkeeper shuffled back and forth between the patrons, refilling their drinks without any noise. Each and every pony there respected the mare and her ability to play. She had a gift that was truly underappreciated here, something that could give her a better life far away from this town.

The green pony kept plucking, knowing her song was nearly finished. The notes each blurred together, performing a song filled with her happiness of playing, as well as the sorrows of a town dying a slow and painful death. Her song was original, one she had written months ago when a bolt of inspiration struck her. As she played the last note, she let the sound ring out among the ponies. When it faded, she swore a sniffle had come from the crowd. Opening her eyes, the golden irises hidden behind her green eyelids scanned the crowd. What she saw amazed her because, not just one, but a few ponies had glassy eyes, a hoof-full with actual tears streaming down their faces.

The mare gracefully got down from her stool, the lyre lifted by her magic. Not a single word was spoken as she made her way through the crowd, everypony nodding their head in respect to her. As she approached the door, a pony cleared his throat, breaking the veil of silence. Turning her head, the seafoam green pony searched for the noise and saw the barkeep motioning her to the bar. She trotted up and regarded the older pony, who slipped her a bulging envelope. The mare levitated the envelope and opened it, gasping at the contents. Inside sat at least seventy bits, tips from the patrons of the bar.

She regarded the barkeep and he nodded to her, telling her that was her cut. The pony looked back at the envelope and then to the crowd of ponies, each and every one of them smiling to her. With her own eyes starting to water, she closed them and trotted back to the stage, readying herself to perform an encore. When she got back onto the stool, her lyre floated gently back to her hooves and she plucked the first note, imagining the roar of ponies in the concert hall she was playing in.

The cold wind blew across the mare's face as she looked up at the stars. The gleaming jewels studded the velvety sky of dark blue, a sight rare for a pony to see here. Glancing her purple eyes down, the glare of lights flooded her vision, erasing the soft glow from the stars. The harsh yellow light of streetlamps and windows burned angrily on the cobblestone streets, casting sinister shadows that merged with the darkness.

The mare returned her gaze to the sky, but found her soft stars had disappeared. The sky was no longer a welcoming dark blue, but had taken on the same shade of darkness that the city was wrapped in below. Sighing to herself, the mare looked down at herself. Clutched in her grey hooves sat a pristine cello, colored deep red and strung with gleaming silver strings. A bow sat in her other hoof, the same rich red color as the cello. Her nearly black mane hung loosely around her shoulders, long and carefree.

Closing her purple eyes, the mare slowly pulled the bow across the silver strings, hearing the entrancing noise of the instrument echo out into the night air. Moving her left hoof gently, she adjusted her grip on the neck of the cello, allowing a new note to ring out. She repeated the same series of movements many times, listening to the beautiful music. In her mind's eye, she wasn't standing atop a building in the middle of the city, but rather was in a small club, playing for nopony in particular. The dim light of the club kept her calm, making it difficult to see who was listening. It didn't matter here if she played classical masterpieces or complicated movements, all that mattered was that she was happy when she walked away.

The sound of the cello filled the air around her, wrapping her up and taking her far away from here. Music did that for her, a gift from the beauty she crafted. It melted the world away, telling her to just play what she wanted and not to impress others. As bright as her thoughts were, a shadow just as menacing as the one holding the city around her invaded her mind. Dark thoughts and memories pervaded the calming thoughts, telling her that she need to perform better, stay in time and to be perfect.

Forcing herself to ignore them, the pony kept playing her song, trying to drown out the phantom voices in her mind. As hard as she tried, though, the voices got louder, screaming at her to be better. It was then a wrong note rang out from the cello, her bow pulling across the wrong string. The note silenced the beautiful music and the mare opened her eyes, now as glossy as a porcelain vase. She froze, the note still ringing in her mind, as a single tear began to roll down her cheek.

The tear was slow, making its way down her grey cheek with the speed of a snail. The mare refused to move, allowing the tear to trace a familiar line down her face. As it neared her chin, the tear dripped off and splattered ungracefully onto the cello body below her. A small quiver began to run through the mare's body, shaking her fore and rear legs. Her knees were growing weak, forcing her to rely on the cello to keep herself upright. Her purple irises looked down at the cello, stunned by the wrong note. Below her, the instrument waited for the next note to be played, as blank as the faces of those whom had listened to her perform many times before.

A suffocating feeling of emptiness filled her as she watched the cello. She had gotten her cutie mark playing this very instrument and had been given the best training to play it flawlessly, but she didn't feel a connection to it anymore. Instead, the cello was her worst enemy, embodying all her fears and pain. Within the grain of the wood used to craft it sat the angry and hard faces of those who had agreed to help her. Teachers, musicians, other cello players and even her own parents looked scathingly at her from the grain, upset her performance had not been perfect.