He leaned into the melody, the plaintive sound of the violin carrying him through the pain. Tears fell slowly from his eyes as he moved his bow with precision across the strings. His lovelorn heart was breaking over and over again as he replayed the scene in his mind. Whatever happened to 'it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?' He hated Tennyson. The face of his beloved was in his mind's eye, and the song of his heartbreak, the unique melody of his own making, was ringing in his ears like an orchestra. As he swayed into his composition's crescendo, his violin becoming wet where it touched his chin, the man was overcome with the strength of his emotion. He fell to his knees, and as the melody quieted into a simple heartrending cry, the room was filled with the gentle sound of weeping: a man broken.