The worn bow hair won't let go of the sound

I'm standing in a practice room where the walls are made of rosin dust. My bow hair is frayed, translucent, almost gone — but every time I draw it across the string, the note comes out deeper than it should, like it's been holding that conversation for years without me. I know I should rehair it tomorrow, but in this dream I just keep playing, because the silence after the replacement scares me more than the thinning tone.