Soul Music by Terry Pratchett
It was, undoubtedly, a beautiful harp. Very rarely a craftsman gets something so right that it is impossible to imagine an improvement. He hadn't bothered with ornamentation. That would have been some kind of sacrilege.
And it was new, which was unusual in Llamedos. Most of the harps were old. It wasn't as if they wore out. Sometimes they needed a new frame, or a neck, or new strings- but the harp went on. The old bards said they got better as they got older, although old men tended to say this sort of thing regardless of daily experience.
Imp plucked a string. The note hung in the air, and faded. The harp was fresh and bright and already it sang out like bell. What it might be like in a hundred years' time was unimagineable.