Rights to Bleach belong to Tite Kubo. I do not make any money off of this.

I was hit with inspiration for this while writing Please King chapter 6. I started out putting this in there, but it became too long, like two paragraphs. I knew that I was too passionate about this to just leave it half written, so I decided to give it its own spotlight! Feel free to read as a stand-alone! It has no dependence on my other fic(s). If anyone wants me to write more heartfelt situations like this just let me know and maybe I'll add to it.


Story Key:

Regular writing



The violin had become a distant hobby of his. After losing his mother he hadn't played it at all for nearly a decade. Especially during the wars; often feeling too guilty to do anything other than train in his minuscule spare time. Once the Quincy threat had been eliminated, Ichigo, ridden with survivor's guilt and other pent up negativity, needed an outlet. So he turned to music.

Opening his closet, he dug through the clothes, trinkets, doohickeys and thingamabobs to reveal an old, worn down case. He pulled it out and set it on his bed. For nearly two hours he sat there with balled fists, just staring at it. His spirits were silent, knowing that he needed this time to himself.

Mozart, Beethoven, Wolfgang, Vivaldi… it was all coming back to him. The sounds, the feeling, the smells, the taste even. The memories that this treasure contains… are invaluable.

Sitting in the kitchen, rain pittering against the windows of the little clinic that they called home, he sat across from his father. He could hear his mom in the kitchen, keeping a watchful eye on the cooking dinner. He held his violin, overcompensating for his small stature by holding the violin at a different angle than his mom showed him. Slowly, he began to move his bow across the strings. The squeaky notes filled the house, stretching asthmatically, although ruggedly, throughout the small living space. He was impressive for a nine year old, especially since he was using his mom's old violin.

The violin was a rich antique. In a master's hands, it put out warm mahogany tones. Even in a novice's hands, it still sung out deeply with cloying melancholy. It wasn't in bad shape by any means, the kitsch dinks and markings show the excessive use, yet the way the instrument glowed revealed the love it was cherished with.

He remembers tracing the S shaped grooves in awe the first time he held it. Could still feel the soothing ridges beneath his fingertips. Feeling the clasps on the case, he realized how relaxed he was. He was seated on the edge of his bed, head leaned back with his eyes closed. When he closed them, he wasn't sure. If anyone were to walk in at that moment, they would have seen an infinitesimal smile gracing his lips during his sweet remembrance.

He opened his eyes once more; rich chocolate pools that were shining a bit more than normal. Looking towards the object of his thoughts, he felt a wave of apprehension, and it reflected in his illustriously expressive eyes.

With baited breath, he opened the case.