The summer sun shines bright.
So far north, the heat never grows unbearable, not even at the height of summer.
Warm ocean breezes drift past, their cool moisture tugging gently at clothes.
The islanders chat and laugh among themselves, catching up on the news of their new home in the conservation area they are moving into.
Before long, talk turns to familiar comforts: friends, spouses, the small, steady details of island life.
The day's catch, their children, school fees, and how business is going at the shops.
The rhythm of the island turns on, endless and never stopping.
Pardon me, where would you like the luggage for households 198 through 200?
Right here's fine, right here. Thank you kindly. You've been at it this whole morning. Much appreciated!
Alright, that's the first two hundred marked off. Whew... feels like we moved a mountain!
Nah, hardly a thing. Just odds and ends now.
Leave the rest to us locals. We've got it covered!
I've got to run home to handle a few things tonight, but honestly, I'd feel awful asking you to stay late. You've already gone above and beyond. We're really grateful.
You don't make it out this way often, so you ought to soak it in while you're here! Got any ideas where you'd like to wander off to today?
Hmm... Do you have a favorite spot you can recommend, Deputy Head?
How about the sunset over the water? This time of year, you might just catch sight of something a little rare.
Something rare?
Our "guardian spirit." The one we locals hold close to heart. Doesn't show itself on just any old evening, mind you!
And as for what exactly it is... well, I'd say that's best discovered with your own eyes!
Me telling you about it won't make it appear, and my blessing won't do a lick of good if it's feeling shy!
But I'll say this: it stands for something lasting. Something that endures. Seems just right for the two of you, don't you think? Haha!
Oh, before I forget, poke around some of the little seafood spots on the island. Fresh catch, and the prices won't make you weep.
There's one called...
After wrapping up work, you and Selena agree to change clothes before the afternoon calls you out.
On the streets, islanders cluster in small gatherings, their conversations a low and peaceful hum.
Children are darting everywhere; couples walk arm-in-arm just behind, their scolding bright with laughter.
In the shops, owners are packing up shell decorations, preparing to close, the air light with teasing and jokes about work.
Standing on this street corner, it is easy to imagine that the crisis never found this island.
Days like these feel so far away now. Even brushing against this atmosphere—mundane, familiar—it carries the weight of something strange.
Sorry, Conductor. Have you been waiting long?
She steps beside you, fingers absently toying with the hem of her dress.
Then her hand rises, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear that was swept loose by the ocean breeze.
Her accessories complement the outfit with perfect balance, never too much and never too little, as though she is simply part of the island scenery.
Is something wrong?
The girl catches every last second of your stunned silence.
We did say we'd visit the shore this afternoon...
Does it suit the scene? Or... does it feel like I've overdone it?
I've been saving this for the festival... but our time here is so fleeting. And since we made plans today, I thought... well, we've been waiting so long for this trip. I wanted to wear it now. To match the moment while it's here...
A low rumble from your stomach cuts the conversation short.
Conductor, you haven't had lunch yet?
You offer the excuse lightly, unwilling to cast a shadow over the afternoon. It's a rare break, and lunchtime has long since slipped away. Wasting a single hour of this planned day feels like a slight against Selena's effort.
Then let's find you something first. The Deputy Head mentioned a few places worth trying.
Following the deputy's directions, you come upon a small shop at the village entrance, its whale sign weathered and faded with age.
The wind chime by the door rings softly as the two of you step inside and take a seat at a corner table against the wall.
Wooden boards hang covered in photographs. Before you can lean in for a closer look, the owner hurries out from the kitchen.
Oh! Not quite the dinner crowd, are we? Lucky for you, I made extra today! What strikes your fancy? We've got a little bit of everything!
The owner hands you a handwritten menu, the penmanship neat and careful.
I'll defer to you, Conductor.
Help yourselves to the lemon water there. Sit tight, I'll have your food ready in no time.
Turning from the owner, you catch Selena's eye. She has been watching you this whole time.
The connection lasts only a second before she glances away, searching for something to say. Her focus shifts to the photographs on the wall.
Following her gaze, you notice the photo seems to capture the owner in her younger years.
A young woman cradles a guitar, her soft performance on the restaurant's small stage shared with her partner.
Back then, her eyes were smooth, unmarked by time, and she smiled without a trace of reservation.
Look.
And this must be her husband.
Selena's gaze lingers on the photographs, traveling from one frame to the next. A young woman stands at the register while a man pours a drink behind the bar. Across the crowded room, their eyes find one another, sharing a smile.
Then come the more intimate moments: the two of them standing by the sea,
lingering inside the shop,
wandering through some festival or another.
There's even a proposal photo here.
She points to a slightly yellowed photograph tucked in the corner. In it, the man is kneeling on one knee, and the woman has her hands over her mouth. A few customers are gathering around them, some clapping, others raising their glasses.
In the background, the same bar counter stands visible. Back then, it was still new, the wood smooth and unblemished by time.
So many years folded into one wall...
Time has a way of slipping past us, doesn't it?
Looking at these... it's like watching whole decades rush by in a single breath...
Selena's expression dims.
She stares as though she is looking for something that is no longer there.
What's got you two studying those old ghosts on the wall? Food's ready!
You were beautiful when you were younger.
And now? Just look at me, all lines and silver threads.
You're still beautiful. It's just... a different kind of light.
The owner waves off the compliment with a smile, yet her eyes drift to the photographs regardless, her expression softening.
Decades folded into that wall, I'll tell you. I started here as the house singer, and ended up marrying the man who owned the place. After that... well. I never did leave, did I? Looking at these now, oh my...
Hard to picture now, isn't it? I was young. Full of music. Full of that restless energy you only get before life settles in. Got too old for it eventually.
That sounds like a beautiful memory.
I still pick up the guitar now and then, when the shop's empty and the chairs are stacked. But I'm rusty as an old hinge these days, let me tell you!
I'd hoped to put on one last proper send-off before we close these doors for good. Something lively, something with a little soul. But my husband's been buried in relocation work every waking hour. Can't quite pull it off on my own.
I mean... I do still have my loyal audience, you know.
This place... we built it together, note by note, year by year. And now we're shutting it down. It just feels like it deserves a proper goodbye. A final bow.
Selena falls silent for a moment.
Her gaze drifts back to the proposal photo on the wall. There, a younger version of the owner beams with a smile as bright as summer itself.
Selena gives you a look, and you nod back in understanding.
I've played a little myself, once upon a time. If you wouldn't mind us lending a hand... perhaps we could help fill out the sound?
Oh... I couldn't possibly ask that of you!
We happen to have the rest of the day free.
Oh my... Well, since you're both so insistent, and so sweet about it, I'll gladly take you up on that!
Now, instruments... I should have a guitar tucked away somewhere in the back. Let me go dig it out.
Here it is! A little weathered, I'll admit, but my man used to play it back in his younger days. It's got some stories in it, this one.
The owner cradles the guitar in her arms and gives the strings a few gentle strums. The sound carries a weathered quality but stays bright and clear—dulled by the years, perhaps, yet far from muted.
Oh, but listen to me, going on about music when there's hot food on the table! Don't you let it get cold on my account. Eat, eat! We can sort out the rest once you've had your fill.
And if you need more, or anything at all, you just say the word. It's on the house today. The stage is yours too, for as long as you'd like to practice. Make yourselves at home!
Whether it is the season or simply where the island sits on the map, the sunset here stretches on and on.
The sun hangs low over the water, lingering there for what feels like ages with no intention of sinking below the horizon.
Its glow ripples across the waves and washes over the sand, and before long, that same vibrant energy spills into the village itself.
Street vendors start calling out to passersby as orange neon lights flicker to life on their stalls, picking up where the sunset leaves off and bathing both village and sea in the same warm glow.
Grumbling and laughing in equal measure, the islanders chat about furnishing their new homes, catching up on old friends, and debating what to eat tomorrow or how to spend the day—the kind of everyday talk that never seems to run out.
Guitar in hand, your thoughts drift along with the rhythm of island life.
You play a few songs on impulse, the performance turning out about as rough as expected.
A bit worried, you glance over at Selena. But the girl beside you doesn't seem the least bit troubled by the stumbling notes. She's absorbed in her own quiet ritual, polishing her instrument with careful, unhurried attention.
Sensing your gaze, Selena looks up from polishing her instrument.
What is it, Conductor?
Is there a piece you'd like to try?
If nothing in particular is calling to you... why don't we simply improvise tonight? Let the moment decide.
From just that small hesitation, she seems to read exactly what's weighing on you.
Conductor, I have a feeling you're not quite at peace with the performance just now?
Conductor, may I ask you something? What do you think makes music truly good?
Music, when you strip it down to its bones, is simply a vessel. A way to carry what we feel about being alive. There's no such thing as "better" or "worse" in that.
But life... life can be rough. It catches in the throat. So we developed techniques, not to impress, but to soften the edges. To make what we're trying to say a little gentler on the ear.
She reaches out and gently takes hold of your wrist, guiding it back to the strings.
I believe everyone carries something inside them. Something they long to call out—to the world, to another person, to the open air.
But people grow shy. They hesitate to speak their truest feelings aloud. So they turn to music instead. They let the melody say what words cannot.
So as long as you pour your heart into the sound, Conductor, I promise I'll hear it. I'll follow wherever you lead. With or without sheet music.
She guides your hand across the strings in a soft, resonant strum. Leaning closer to help anchor the chord, the faint scent of her synthetic hair drifts into the melody, clean and strangely calming. It settles over your senses and eases the tension from your shoulders.
Oh, and look here. Your strings are wound a little too tight.
She takes the guitar from your hands with a featherlight touch.
It throws off the tuning, and it'll hurt your fingertips before long.
She adjusts the pegs with careful precision, then plucks each string in turn, listening.
There. They're all in tune now.
Now then, Conductor, shall we try another song together?
With the shape of what you want to say forming in your mind, you tap the wooden body of the guitar and strum the first chord.
The wind chimes by the entrance catch the melody and answer in kind, their soft ringing mingling with the arrival of friends. Groups drift in, chatting and laughing as they settle into their seats, filling the little shop to the brim.
The sea breeze slips through the open door, carrying with it the sizzle and warmth of the kitchen. Conversations rise and fall like the tide, some voices lifted in cheerful toasts, others grumbling about the mess the disaster left behind, a few drifting back to quieter days when life was so still it nearly lulled you to sleep.
The lighthearted chords weave through it all, seasoning the lively chatter and softening the bitter aftertaste that clings to the edges of ordinary life.
Your attention strays as you catch a few customers murmuring about you and Selena. Curiosity tugs at you, and you glance their way, only to find the islanders' smiling eyes already waiting, as though they'd known all along that you'd look.
A few enthusiastic voices call out encouragement from the crowd. Others simply sway where they sit, letting the music carry them. Someone even draws a fond comparison between the duo onstage and the owner with her husband, back when they were young and the nights were full of song.
Ah, if these two had washed up on the island any sooner, our dear owner would've been out of a job!
Hey now, don't you go dragging me into your tall tales! I'm loyal to the house, thank you very much! Speaking of which, could I trouble you for another grilled fish over here?
The exchange pulls a stifled laugh from Selena. Her amusement slips through before she can catch it, sending a tiny waver through the melody beneath her fingers.
Sitting beside her, you can feel the subtle tremors running through her frame. She's trying to keep it tucked away, but the laughter won't quite be contained.
Outside the window, the sky begins to shift. The sun has sunk low, kissing the edge of the horizon, and its orange-red glow spills through the glass. It washes over the modest stage, catches in the folds of Selena's dress, glints off the piano strings, and warms the faded photographs lining the wall.
Those ordinary days come alive again in the pictures: the couple laughing together over some forgotten joke, the young woman making light of hard times as she balances a tray of drinks, the man pulling his flustered wife into an embrace when she least expects it...
The twilight weaves these precious fragments into something like film, each scene playing through the mind one after another.
Meeting. Understanding. Loving. Weeping. Life, it seems, is stitched together from countless small yet achingly full emotions, each one a thread in a chapter meant to be passed forward into the distant years ahead.
Caught up in the moment, your gaze drifts to the girl beside you. You find yourself imagining the long, unfolding years you might spend together.
Perhaps when the Punishing Virus crisis finally fades into memory, life will show its ordinary colors again.
The time already lost to duty and distance—you'll make it up to her. Twice over, if the days allow.
In that distant, hopeful future, you will stand beside her through countless seasons.
Lost somewhere between thoughts of futures far-off and moments achingly close, you feel yourself ease into the music. Emotion pours unbidden into each chord. Your touch grows lighter, softer, your fingers no longer pressing quite firmly enough against the strings.
Beside you, the girl deliberately lets her notes linger. One by one, she tenderly fills the hollow spaces your imperfect melody leaves behind.
Don't worry about it, Conductor. Just keep playing.
Selena's whisper settles over you like a calm tide.
What is she thinking in this moment? Does she hold the same quiet hopes as you?
The girl offers no words. She answers only through her melody, one that seems to carry a smile within its notes.
From the kitchen, the owner emerges, balancing plates along her arm and setting them gently before the waiting customers.
Oh, right! Your man asked me to pass along a message. Said he might be running late tonight. Buried up to his ears, apparently!
Yeah, yeah.
Cold as the deep sea! Folks, let me tell you. These two? Back in the day? Absolutely insufferable. Pure sugar. Made your teeth ache just watching them.
I was there when he proposed, you know!
He stood up there and said something like, "I swear by the sea breeze, I speak through the crashing waves, and I ask you now with all my heart... will you—"
Eat your food!
The whole restaurant erupts into laughter.
How about a song tonight, ma'am?
Not tonight... I've still got dishes waiting in the back!
We've been coming here for years! Who cares how fast the food hits the table!
Come on now, just one song! Give us a tune!
The islanders cheer and nudge the owner toward the small stage, their enthusiasm infectious. Even Selena can't help but smile at the scene. The owner sighs, relenting under the warm pressure of the crowd, and makes her way up through the noise.
Well then... how about an old local folk song? Though I'm not sure you youngsters will know it... La la la...
I know this one. I'll be fine.
See? Even the lovebirds say it's fine!
That's right! If you won't sing for us old barnacles, at least sing for these two. They came all this way to play for us! They haven't even heard you yet!
Selena smiles softly, then turns her gaze toward you, silently passing the choice to you as you stand there with the guitar, uncertain.
Alright, alright! Teasing me is fair game, but leave the youngsters out of it, you hear?
Well... if even you're saying so, then I suppose I'm really doing this, aren't I?
The owner clears her throat, draws a breath, and lets her voice rise into song.
{226|153|170}It's 'cause the white left behind by time...{226|153|170}
Perhaps it's the years. Her voice catches, roughens, falters for just a breath. But the melody holds, and before the silence can settle, another soft, familiar voice joins in, gentle and warm.
{226|153|170}You wonder why I would always daydream by the tide...{226|153|170}
Selena leans gently against you, the barest pressure of her shoulder nudging you toward the next line.
The restaurant falls completely silent.
The owner carries the tune a few lines further, but when she catches her voice drifting off-key, she waves it away with a laugh and steps back, ceding the small stage entirely to the two of you.
It was a love song meant for two voices all along. Without a word exchanged between you, the duet simply begins.
The sea breeze becomes your quiet accompanist. The fading sunset spills through the window, painting the stage in amber and rose. Each verse, words that might have read as bitter laments on paper, softens in the telling, tempered by your voices into something tender and almost sweet.
You close your eyes. What is it you want to express through this song?
Nothing complicated, you realize. Nothing grand. Only the quiet hope that this moment—here, now, with her—might somehow be preserved. Tucked away safe in memory, untouched by time.
You weave that feeling into the sound. The melody seems to deepen, gathering weight and warmth, layer upon layer.
You lift your head, keeping time with the gentle rhythm.
Selena is leaning in, swaying with the current of the music, watching you with a curious tilt of her head as you sing with your eyes closed.
The moment your gazes meet, a smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it.
You let the music speak in your place, playing on at an easy, unhurried pace.
The notes seem to cut clean through time itself, stitching together scattered fragments—hers, yours, memories knitting themselves whole.
Layer upon layer, they become the melody that trembles in the space between you.
Before long, the song finds its ending.
Silence holds for a single, suspended breath.
Then applause and cheers erupt, with laughter rippling through the small crowd. A few playful voices ring out—"Lovely! One more!"—and the warmth of it leaves the girl beside you visibly flustered.
But in this moment, tucked just out of view, your hand has already found hers.
To life, to the future! To the lovebirds!
Art is the gentlest way of safeguarding the human soul.
