Golden light drips through the gaps in the autumn leaves, setting the world ablaze in amber. The air is filled with distant conversations, the laughter of children, the rhythmic hush of the wind teasing the branches. Somewhere, a violinist plays for a group of strangers, his bow dancing over strings.

Eziah sits on a worn wooden bench, a leather notebook spread open on his lap. Ink-stained fingers hover over the staff lines, but the melody refuses to move forward. It stops where it always does—three notes shy of completion.

For countless weeks, a haunting melody has nestled within him, clinging to his ribs but refusing to emerge in its entirety. It visits him in the silent hours of the night, flowing through the spaces between dreams, a song that feels like a distant memory—once cherished but now forgotten. Yet, despite his efforts to mold, transform, and extend it, the elusive ending slips away.

He exhales, leans back, lets the weight of unfinished creation press into his bones. Maybe it was never meant to be completed. Then, like a thread pulled from the air, he hears it.

A voice—soft and warm, reminiscent of the gentle touch of fingers gliding over silk—floats in the air, filling in the missing notes of the melody with a soothing hum.

Eziah turns. Just a few steps ahead, a man rests against an iron lamppost, the setting sunlight weaving golden threads through his hair. A guitar case drapes across his back, his hands nestled in the warmth of a timeworn coat. He hums softly, as though the melody has eternally resided in his soul, yearning for this moment to gently escape into the world. Eziah’s pulse stumbles. The notes are exactly right. The ones he could never find. He stands, the motion uncertain, like stepping toward a mirage.

"How do you know that song?"

The man lifts his gaze, eyes the color of dusk meeting Eziah’s with quiet amusement. "I don’t. I just... heard you humming earlier. It felt unfinished. I filled in the rest."

The words settle into the hollow places of Eziah’s chest, the spaces he had long stopped trying to fill. He glances down at his notebook, fingers tracing over the inked measures, now whole. Complete. A soft laugh escapes him, breathless and new. "It's been unfinished for weeks. Would you—would you play it with me?"