It was small, made of the same colored metal and wood of her box. It also looked a little bent and had more strings than Dust was used to. The filly was on her side with the instrument on the ground in front of her, struggling at it with her forelegs. Occasionally she’d make a few awkward twanging sounds, but that was all. Her motions struck Dust like a pony who had suffered a traumatic brain injury, a pony who was struggling to remember how to move. Yet to her knowledge, this filly hadn’t been hurt like that. Something in her past, maybe? Something the doctors hadn’t been able to find?