act18d3

(Plucks strings)

Huh...? This melody... You were humming it while you were asleep last night.

It's always in my head.

Is this a song that you and your partner used to sing?

We have a lot of songs like this back home. We sing... as a way to talk to each other.

When I left, the singing was gone too. I'm all by myself, and this song is all that I have left.

No wonder this song sounds so sad.

(Plucks strings)

Singer, remember our promise?! You got your harp back. Does that mean you can sing for us now?

We're all waiting. Right, Grandma Petra?

Mmn... Uhh...

Grandma probably can't talk today. She would sing along with you if she could.

Ah... Ahhh...

Singer, Grandma wants to hear your song.

Alright.

Clad in her red dress, the wandering singer sits in the middle of the group. She closes her eyes as her fingers stroke the strings of her harp.

The notes and the lyrics flow out from her naturally as she plunks away at her harp strings, permeating every corner of the rundown bar. The melody twists and expands in the air as though this is where it belongs.

A hunter is walking on seacoast way♪

With homeland left a mile behind, his path lies ahead♪

From his forebears and children, he was torn♪

Into the seas his lover was swept away, floating in the deep, dead♪

I noticed a change in your expression. Did you feel something, perhaps?

Nothing.

Not a surprise. Your reflexes are still rather slow. Look at the water before you. The fluctuation of the level, the frequency of the waves, and the movement of its luster. All of these are information.

It'll be high tide soon. We should go.

A hunter is walking on seacoast way♪

With homeland left a mile behind, they must lament and pray♪

There is no end to his path♪

The road ahead is shrouded in gray♪

She's singing.

How could she sing in front of these people in this rundown house?

And... they are listening to her.

The ones who hang their heads are still looking straight at the floor. The ones who don't speak are still silent as ever. Her singing has no way to reach their cold, hard husks, but their eyes...

Do they understand it somehow?

A hunter is walking on seacoast way♪

The singer stops her fingers, but the harmony formed by her harp and voice together does not simply disappear because of that.

It yet remains with the wanderer herself, creating an open seam in the thick dust.

A few sprouts land in that crevice just as others begin to sprout from it.

Grandma Petra?

What's wrong?

She... fell asleep.

She never sleeps so peacefully. Most of the time, she starts screaming the moment she closes her eyes, grasping at nothing.

I thought she'd want to dance when she heard you sing. I mean, she's always chirping about how she wants to dance.

Drywall?

I'm going to die. There's seawater in my eyes... It's salty. Not tasty at all.

Whoa... Are you... crying?

Crying? What is that?

It's a kind of emotion that flows out from the deepest depths of your body...

It is...? I don't think I understand.

Singer, I like your songs. You don't like to talk, but you have so much to tell when you are singing.

Could you sing it again? I want to hear you talk about lots more.

(Plucks strings)

The sea breeze envelops the singer's fingers and wafts into her nostrils. The smell here has changed.

It's now high tide.

Food...

We'll have food again...

To the beach.

Priest!

The masses rush outside.

The melody of her song has stopped.