He awoke to the sound of cannons. The rumbling thunder in the distance signaled the start of another day, as surely and consistently as it had since the war reached Sarajevo. It would be moments before the shots hit, reducing much of the small European city to rubble. Sometimes, with luck on their side, they landed outside the city. Things were rarely so lucky. A series of booms made his ears ring, numb and dizzy with shock. Outside, groups of infantrymen could be heard shouting orders to prepare the retaliatory barrage. Ignoring them, he got out of bed and woke up. The pain in his head did not ease any less. But all in all he should have been content with the fact that he was still alive. No one expected the battles to come this far, this soon. Once rich in culture, the old city no longer showed any signs of the proud beacon it once was. This was all his hometown had been reduced to: a handful of damaged buildings scattered among the rubble and ash. It was hard to believe that all this had happened in just a few weeks; not when the place couldn't even be called a city anymore. He tried to put it out of his mind; the past was in the past. Nothing would come of the hopeful wishes of the good old days. He washed a mouthful of hard biscuit down his throat with a can of boiled water. The biscuits tasted like dry cardboard, but he had gotten used to it. He had almost had no choice. After all, where could he find another source of nourishment these days? He wrapped the leftovers in a clean silk cloth, leaving them for dinner. The meager meal did little to quell his hunger, but he had learned to ignore the constant rumbling of his stomach. In... middle of the paper... a little thank you before dispersing into their hiding places. He said nothing in return. Instead, the silent cellist put his instrument back in its case, lowered the latches, and went home.* * *Climbing into bed, he pulled the sheets over his head and fell asleep. As he slept, he dared to dream for the first time in weeks. He dreamed of performing in a large concert hall, overflowing with people from Sarajevo. He dreamed of masses of happy faces, dressed in fine threads and filled with good food. In the front row of the audience sat the beaming little girl, surrounded by countless other happy people. A symphony of notes flowed from his instrument, filling the room with his joy and his art. All was right with the world. Everything was as it should have been. Everything was like it used to be. He woke up to the sound of cannons.