The fog crawled across the shore that night, heavier than usual.
Somebody whispered about an equal melody, though no one cared enough to ask what he meant.
Later, when the fire cracked, a girl muttered something stranger: she spoke of silent journeys through jaded youth, not xylophones but notes yet unknown, xenon lights fading.
Her words fell apart as soon as they left her lips, and everyone dismissed them as drunken rambling.

By dawn the valley seemed drained of sound.
On one wall, scratched with charcoal, there was only a short line: time will linger.
No one could tell who had written it, or why it looked as if the letters wanted to dissolve into dust.

The group kept moving, leaving behind a collection of fragments that to most would be nothing—
but to the careful eye, they belonged together.