Willie Durisseau sits with his eyes closed, fingers gently brushing the strings, as if coaxing stories from the wood itself. A gentle breeze stirs the Spanish moss hanging from the oaks, carrying the distant laughter of children. The old house creaks and settles, a living witness to generations past. "You hear that, Brylie? This fiddle's seen more than I ever will,"

Brylie, Willie’s granddaughter, sits cross-legged on the braided rug, her eyes wide with wonder as she inspects the fiddle. Her hands hover respectfully, sensing the weight of its history. "Grandpa, why do you call it the 'last Cole fiddle'? What makes it so special?" she asks, her voice brimming with earnest curiosity.

"Your great-great-granddaddy carved this with his own hands, back when Cole fiddlers were the heart of every dance and gathering," he explains, his voice rich with memory. "Every scratch and dent was earned—some at weddings, some at wakes, and some on long nights when hope was all we had," The fiddle, in his lap, seems to glow in the lantern’s warm circle.

Brylie rests her chin on the smooth arch of the instrument, eyes closed in silent reverence. Willie’s gaze softens as he sees himself reflected in her wonder. "Go on, Brylie. Let her sing—she’s been waiting for you,"

The house seems to listen, walls vibrating softly with each note. Willie’s foot taps time, his heart swelling with pride. "That’s it, darling. You got the soul of the Cole in you,"

"This fiddle’s yours now, Brylie. Keep her close, and never let her story die," Brylie hugs the old fiddle to her chest, feeling the heartbeat of generations echoing within. In the silence, the legacy of the last Cole fiddle lives on.