The lines of the rain

She always plays the flute
I listen to her, without fail,
everyday.

Everynight she sat in front of me, with the canvas of the city behind her, on that abandoned building. Her music sounded in a soft and torn melody, like whisper hid the cries of a life of accumulated suffering.

Living in the streets is hard.

We met on a rainy night, just when I was trying to take refuge among the rafters of that old building. She was there and looking at us we understood that words were expendable. I shared a piece of bread and she gave me music. Her name was Sophia and she made a living with that flute. The notes sounded like whisper of wind and the melody of rain. Since that night I became addicted. I needed to listen to her everynight to find meaning in life.

However, one day she disappeared.

They found her dead in an alley. Some bastard had raped her and then murdered her.

[...]

I'm still here, looking for death to hear it again in the whispers of the rain.

Sophia always played the flute.
I listened to her, without fail:
now I must go find her.