The fiddle’s older than Granddad. Made of willow wood, graveyard wood. It’s old and scarred. Any shine it had is long gone. Dulled by rosin for the bow and countless fingers wearing it down. And it likes the night. Maybe because it sings like a sad woman’s voice. That’s what Granddad said. A fiddle is most like a voice. Most like a woman who calls out lonely, which is why it quivers so when the song gets all sad. A sound like that always causes a gathering.