Synopsis

“The Unfinished Song” is the story of two souls — a young woman and a
man — who meet through music and awaken through one another. What
begins as a creative collaboration unfolds into a spiritual odyssey that blurs
the lines between dream and waking, sound and silence, love and
transcendence.

When Adi, a reflective musician drawn to the mystical undercurrents of

sound, meets Sacha, an art teacher whose life hums with erratic brilliance,
their connection ignites instantly. Through late-night emails, shared songs,
and vivid dreams, the boundary between their inner worlds begins to
dissolve. Each sees in the other a mirror of their own hidden longing — not
for romance, but for truth.

Their journey moves through the tangible and the ethereal: from the
small-town stages of Lincoln to the shimmering landscapes of shared
dreams — floating houses, rivers of light, and voices that sing beyond
language. Through these crossings, Adi discovers that music is more than
expression; it is communion, a bridge between the seen and unseen.

But every connection that opens the soul must one day release it. As their
paths diverge, what remains is not loss but transformation — the realization
that love’s truest form is freedom. In stillness, in silence, and in the pulse
between heartbeats, Adi finds that the song they began together was never
meant to end… only to continue through him.

“The Unfinished Song” is a lyrical exploration of creativity, spiritual

awakening, and the sacred nature of human connection. Told in present
tense and woven with dream imagery, it dissolves the borders between
inner and outer worlds — between what is lived, what is dreamed, and
what is remembered by the soul.

It is not a story of what was lost, but of what was found in the sound behind
the sound.
The Unfinished Song
A Story of Music, Dream, and Transcendence
by Adrian Cox
Table of Contents

Prologue — The First Note​

A silence that listens. Two souls begin to resonate across distance,
unaware that their meeting will tune their lives to a deeper frequency.

Chapter 1 — The Floating House​

Adi and Sacha’s connection begins through shared songs and the first
glimmers of dreamlike synchronicity.

Chapter 2 — Blue Pleiadian​

A new melody is born — a song that seems to arrive from somewhere
beyond them both.

Chapter 3 — Busking in Lincoln​

Their music touches the world outside, blurring the line between art and
revelation.

Chapter 4 — A River of Life​

Water becomes their metaphor — flowing, reflecting, endlessly returning.

Chapter 5 — The Room of Instruments​

In dreams, their music manifests as a living architecture of sound.

Chapter 6 — Echoes and Distance​

Tension and tenderness intertwine as the creative current deepens — and
begins to pull them apart.

Chapter 7 — The Floating House Returns​

Memory becomes dream; dream becomes message. The house
reappears, lighter and emptier.
Chapter 8 — The Mirror Between Worlds​
Adi begins to see that what connects them is not physical but energetic —
a mirror of spirit.

Chapter 9 — The Borderline​

A performance in London becomes a turning point between love, dream,
and awakening.

Chapter 10 — Mind, Body, Spirit​

Adi learns to listen for the sound behind the sound — discovering creation
as communion.

Chapter 11 — De-Cluttering the Soul​

Through clearing his space, he clears his spirit, making peace with what
has passed.

Chapter 12 — The Shamanic Journey​

Meditation opens into vision; the river of life carries him into initiation.

Chapter 13 — The Unfinished Song​

He writes the final piece — not as an ending, but as an eternal
continuation of their harmony.

Chapter 14 — Purelands​
In dream, they meet one last time — as light, as sound, as peace.

Author’s Reflection — The River and the Mirror​

A lyrical meditation on the deeper purpose of their meeting — the alchemy
of love, music, and spiritual evolution.

Dedication​
For Sacha — and for the unseen current that carried this story into being.
Prologue — The First Note
Before the song, there is silence. Not emptiness, but the kind of silence that
listens.

It waits — in the pause between thought and breath, in the hush before
fingers touch strings, in the space where one life is about to meet another.

Somewhere, across an unseen distance, two notes begin to vibrate. They

do not know each other yet, but the universe already knows their harmony.
They are drawn together — not by will, but by resonance.

He dreams of sound — endless, unbroken. She dreams of light — fluid,

unbound. And somewhere in the unseen fabric between them, those
dreams begin to weave.

When they meet, it is simple. A song shared, a few words exchanged, and
yet the world tilts — not with drama, but with recognition. As if two mirrors
have finally turned to face one another and see, at last, the infinite space
reflected between.

From that point, nothing will ever sound the same again.

The story that follows is not linear. It moves like music — through verse and
pause, through dream and waking, through love and its release.

This is not a story about possession, but about presence. Not about what
was held, but what was revealed through letting go.
And if you listen carefully — beneath the dialogue, beneath the dreams,
beneath the ache of what might have been — you may hear it too: the faint
hum that began before words existed, the note that carries everything, the
sound behind the sound.
Chapter 1 — Meatball Street
The message arrives with no warning — a simple “Hi” and a phone
number, as if it were a door left slightly open. He pauses before the glow of
his screen, reading her name again: Sacha. There’s something musical
about it, something soft and unpredictable, like the first chord struck on a
half-tuned guitar.

He types back quickly, careful not to sound too eager.

“Thanks, Sacha. I’ll see you at twelve tomorrow.”

He imagines her laughing softly as she reads it, her hair perhaps falling
over her eyes, the kind of woman who has to brush the world aside to stay
focused on what she feels.

The next morning, Retford hums faintly in the late summer heat. The
pavements shimmer, and the air smells faintly of petrol and possibility. Adi
tunes his guitar in the corner of the small rehearsal room, listening to the
thin metallic twang of the strings snapping into tune.

Sacha arrives a little late, breathless, carrying her cajón under one arm and
a folded notebook under the other. Her dogs wait in her van outside, and
for a moment she seems torn between worlds — caretaker, musician,
wanderer.

“Sorry, I got caught in the usual chaos,” she says, dropping the cajón down
with a gentle thud. “You’ll like this though.” She opens her notebook and
begins to read.
 “Down at Meatball Street, that’s where I take my dogs to eat…”

Her voice is light, teasing. The lyrics are absurd and charming, like a
nursery rhyme sung by someone who’s already seen too much of the
world.

Adi grins. “That’s brilliant. Punk-style, right? Fast, chaotic, a little ridiculous.”

“Exactly. Singing about meatballs means no one takes you seriously,” she
says, and laughs. It’s a laugh that lingers, hanging in the air between them,
waiting to see if it will turn into something else.

Later that evening, Adi sits by the window of his small flat, the hum of the
fridge behind him. His fingers tap against the guitar body in restless rhythm.
He writes her a reply in verse — a playful poem of his own, the words
tumbling out almost too easily.

I like your poem, Sacha,​

I like the way you rhyme.​
I’ll do it justice — just give me a little time.

He hits send and leans back, watching the last of the sunlight pool across
the carpet like melted amber. He feels lighter somehow. Maybe it’s the
music, maybe it’s her. The two are starting to feel inseparable.

Night gathers around the small room. Outside, the streetlamps hum. He
drifts into that half-sleep where sound and image overlap. Sacha’s voice
turns into melody; the rhythm of her words becomes a heartbeat.

Down at Meatball Street, echoes faintly in his mind — the line loops,
mutates, becomes something new. He sees a street that isn’t real: glowing
pavements, tables of invisible diners, dogs with silver collars feasting on
light. He walks there, barefoot, guitar in hand. The air smells of laughter
and promise.
Sacha turns toward him in the dream, her eyes bright. “Every song is a
doorway,” she says. “You just have to walk through.”

When he wakes, the line still hums through him — an unfinished riff
vibrating in his chest. He picks up his guitar, strums twice, and the morning
sunlight answers with music.
Chapter 2 — Blue Pleiadian
The summer deepens. The air outside grows heavy with dust and heat, but
inside Adi’s small room, the sound of strings fills the stillness. He leans over
the guitar, half-singing, half-listening to something invisible. The melody
feels older than he is, as if it has waited for years in the corner of his mind,
whispering: Now.

He names it “Blue Pleiadian.”

It is not a song about love exactly — more like longing made into sound.
Notes rise and fall like voices calling across a distance too wide to cross.
Each chord opens a space where something sacred hums quietly beneath
the ordinary.

He tells Sacha about it in an email.

“It’s another style of music that I like to write in, but I really need
to play it on piano.”

Her reply arrives late that night.

“Yey! Great poem response,” she writes, referring to the song he

made from her “Meatball Street.”​
“Had a really productive day on the guitar. Couldn’t put it down.”

He reads that line several times. Couldn’t put it down. It stays with him, that
sense of shared fever, both of them carried by the same invisible
momentum. He imagines her somewhere else in the dark, fingers pressing
down on strings, her brow furrowed in concentration. Two separate rooms
— but one current running through.
They meet again midweek. The rehearsal space smells faintly of old wood
and coffee. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, tuning, her hair falling in
front of her face.

“Got something new?” she asks.

He nods, but words feel too small. He just plays. The slow jazz rhythm, the
suspended chords, the way the melody seems to lean forward and then
hold its breath — it fills the room with something both fragile and infinite.

Sacha closes her eyes. Her fingers tap lightly against the cajón, finding the
spaces between his beats, the little hesitations that make his timing so
human. When he stops, she smiles faintly. “That… wasn’t of this world.”

He laughs, but her words stay with him.

That night, the dream comes again.

He is floating in dark blue light. Above him shimmer seven stars, arranged
like an open hand. A woman drifts down through the starlight — her face
soft, almost translucent. Her voice carries the same melody as his song,
only purer.

“Do you see now?” she whispers.​

“What am I seeing?”​
“The sound behind the sound.”

The stars pulse in rhythm with her words, and he realizes that she is the
song — or maybe the song is becoming her. He reaches out, but she
dissolves into luminescent dust. The notes linger, suspended between
silence and awakening.
When Adi wakes, he writes the dream down immediately, the details fading
even as he types.

A woman of blue light — said I must listen for the sound behind
the sound.

He stares at the words for a long time. There’s a soft ache in his chest, the
kind that feels both ancient and new.

Later that morning, he emails Sacha again.

“I think I’ve written something channeled. It came in a dream. I’m

calling it ‘Blue Pleiadian.’”

He hesitates, then adds:

“It’s for you, really.”

He presses send before he can change his mind.

In another part of the city, Sacha’s phone vibrates. She reads his message
while stirring coffee, smiling faintly, unaware that somewhere, in the quiet
hum of his flat, a song with her name woven into its chords is still playing —
softly, endlessly, as if the stars themselves were keeping time.
Chapter 3 — Busking in Lincoln
The morning light cuts through the curtains in thin gold lines. Adi wakes
early, his mind already buzzing with the faint rhythm of a day that hasn’t
quite begun. He packs his guitar, coins rattling faintly in the case, and steps
out into the sunlit quiet of Lincoln’s streets.

There is something ritualistic about it — the setting up, the tuning, the way
he finds his corner near the stone archway of the old cathedral. When he
begins to play, the city seems to breathe differently. Passers-by slow their
step. Pigeons pause mid-flight. The strings shimmer beneath his fingers
like veins of light.

The music isn’t perfect. It wavers, bends, reshapes itself as if listening to

something beyond the air. He’s learned to trust those small imperfections;
they open the doorway for something honest to step through.

After two hours, he takes a break on the cathedral steps. The air smells of
sun-warmed stone and coffee from a nearby café. His phone buzzes — a
message from Sacha.

“Good session? I’m thinking of new lyrics. Had one of those

nights where ideas wouldn’t stop. Might have something.”

He smiles. The thought of her sleepless, chasing melodies through the

dark, feels strangely intimate. He types back quickly.

“Yes, great session. Sun, songs, and a few coins. Everything’s

better when it’s played outside.”

He adds,
 “Can’t wait to hear what you’re writing.”

Then, without meaning to, he writes,

“Wish you were here.”

He stares at the screen, hesitating, but leaves it. Some things shouldn’t be
erased.

As the afternoon stretches on, he wanders through the cobbled streets,

past the antique shops and quiet cafés. Music still echoes faintly in his
mind, blending with the rhythm of footsteps and wind. For a moment he
feels like he’s walking through a song that never ends.

At the corner of a narrow lane, he stops. A group of street performers are

playing — fiddle, drum, tambourine. A woman’s voice rises over the clatter,
high and clear. For a split second, it sounds like her. He turns sharply, heart
quickening. But when he looks again, the singer isn’t Sacha at all — just a
stranger with the same timbre, the same ache.

Still, the illusion stays with him. He tosses a coin into their case and walks
away, the sound of her-not-her voice following behind like an echo from
another life.

That night, the dream returns.

He’s standing in Lincoln again, but the streets are empty, gleaming with rain
that hasn’t fallen. A guitar case lies open in front of him, but instead of
coins, there are tiny orbs of light — soft, pulsing, breathing. He bends to
touch one, and it bursts into sound: the same melody from “Blue Pleiadian,”
only now distant, fading, as if played underwater.

Sacha appears at the end of the street, barefoot, holding her cajón. Her
hair glows faintly in the lamplight. She calls out to him, but the words
dissolve before they reach him. The city tilts, rippling like liquid glass.
He tries to move, but the air thickens around him. The lights rise slowly,
swirling upward like spirits released. The last thing he hears before waking
is her voice, soft and close:

“Every note finds its home, Adi… even the lost ones.”

When he wakes, he feels something quiet and sure inside him. He can’t
name it, but it feels like belonging — not to her, not even to the world, but to
the music itself.

He writes her again before breakfast.

“Good morning, Sacha. Busking went beautifully. You were in my

dream again. We were playing under the cathedral lights. I think
you’d have laughed.”

He pauses, then adds one more line:

“There’s something about Lincoln — it listens.”

He sends it and smiles. The sunlight catches his guitar’s body on the table,
reflecting a single point of gold light onto the wall — a star in miniature,
waiting for the next song.
Chapter 4 — Doncaster Dream
Morning light slips through the blinds in fractured lines. Adi’s laptop hums
softly as he re-reads the latest email from Sacha.

“Feeling calmer today thanks. No, I would like to do the

Doncaster set.”

He leans back in his chair, smiling faintly. She wants to do it.​

The gig — half-organized, half-imagined — feels like a thread between
them now, a shared horizon to walk toward. He pictures her guitar slung
over her shoulder, hair tied up, eyes alight with the focus that comes when
she’s on stage.

He writes back.

“I’m pleased you’re feeling calmer. Just take a bit of time, close
your eyes, breathe. You’ll come out of it a new person.”

He hesitates before adding,

“It’s good news about Doncaster. I’ll work hard on the set.”

Then sends it, and sits for a while, letting the silence answer.

The day of the rehearsal is warm and clear. They meet early — she’s
already in the garden, tuning. Her dogs wander between them, tails
swaying lazily. The rhythm of summer surrounds them: bees, birds, the faint
hum of distant traffic.
Adi strums softly, and she joins in, tapping out a heartbeat on the cajón.
The sound of it catches in the air like a held breath — fragile, temporary,
true.

When the song ends, Sacha looks up. “You play like someone who’s trying
to remember something,” she says.

He nods. “Maybe I am.”

She smiles but doesn’t press him. There’s a quiet understanding between
them — the kind that doesn’t need words, only rhythm.

That night, Adi dreams of Doncaster before it happens.

He’s on stage, lights streaming down in amber waves. The audience is

faceless, swaying in slow motion. Sacha stands beside him, her face
turned toward the crowd, but her eyes are closed — lost in something only
she can hear.

The song they play isn’t one they’ve written yet. It begins as a heartbeat,
then becomes a river, then turns into pure vibration. The notes seem to
leave the instruments entirely, spiraling into the ceiling until the whole room
becomes sound.

The air tastes electric. He feels weightless, his voice blending with hers
until they are indistinguishable — a single harmony carried on invisible
wings.

When the last note fades, she turns toward him.​

“Did you feel it?” she whispers.​
“Yes.”​
“It’s already happened,” she says. “We just have to catch up to it.”

He wakes with tears in his eyes and no idea why.

The next day, reality doesn’t quite match the dream. The Doncaster gig, it
turns out, may not even exist — a rumour that drifts through email threads
and half-remembered conversations. Art 4 Dementia. Ukrainian Centre.
15th September. The names sound real enough, but when he calls, no one
seems to know.

He writes to her again.

“They didn’t know anything about the event. It might not be

happening.”

Her reply comes the next morning.

“Oh well. We’ll find another one. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”

He stares at that line for a long time. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

He closes his eyes, hearing again her voice in the dream: It’s already
happened.

Which is true? The one that fades, or the one that stays?

A week later, he’s in his flat again, strumming absentmindedly. He plays the
dream song — the one that came from nowhere — but can’t remember all
the chords. It keeps changing, like a landscape seen through fog.

He presses record anyway, hoping to catch even a shadow of what he felt

that night.

The music fills the room, trembling, unfinished. Halfway through, he

whispers her name without meaning to. The sound slips into the recording
— a trace, small but permanent.

He doesn’t delete it.

When he sends her the file, she replies a few hours later:
 “Wow. You dark horse. Look forward to hearing it.”

He smiles, but something inside him has already shifted. The Doncaster
dream wasn’t a failure; it was an opening. He can feel it now — that their
connection lives in the space between waking and dreaming, between what
was and what will never quite be.

The gig may never happen. But the music — the music already has.
Chapter 5 — A River of Life
Rain drifts softly across the window as Adi reads her latest email. The
drops run like tears over glass.

“Not been a good few days. Felt low and tired. But played guitar
this morning and felt a bit better.”

He reads it again. It feels honest — stripped bare, like the air after a storm.
He wants to tell her everything will be all right, but he knows words can only
go so far.

Instead, he picks up his guitar and lets his fingers find something to say for
him. The first notes come uncertainly, then steadier, flowing one into
another, rising like water that has finally found its path.

Without meaning to, he starts to hum. The melody is simple, circular — a

single phrase that folds back on itself endlessly, like a stream turning
through stones. The words arrive almost on their own:

There is a river of life, and it flows through you, through me.

Carrying the songs we’ve forgotten, bringing them back to the
sea.

He plays it again and again, until the edges between music and silence
blur. When he finishes, the rain has stopped, and the room feels wider,
cleaner, as if it’s been listening.

Later that night, he sends her the song.

“Wrote this for you. It came out of nowhere, like something

wanted to be heard. Called it A River of Life.”
He almost doesn’t expect a reply. But her message comes not long after
midnight.

“It’s beautiful. It feels… healing. I dreamt of water last night.

Maybe this is what it was about.”

He stares at her words, heartbeat quickening. Healing. That’s what it feels

like for him too — though he can’t tell whether it’s her he’s healing, or
himself.

In the early hours, Adi drifts into sleep. The dream comes quickly.

He’s standing at the edge of a great river. The water glows faintly blue, as if
lit from within. Sacha is there too, across from him on the opposite bank.
Her figure shimmers in the mist.

Between them, the current rushes — not violent, but strong, unstoppable.

“Can you hear it?” she calls.​

“What is it?”​
“The song beneath the world.”

He listens. The water hums — the same melody he played earlier. Each
ripple is a note, each wave a breath. It’s the river of everything they’ve ever
played, said, or dreamed.

She steps into the water without fear. Her reflection trembles, then joins the
current. “You don’t have to cross,” she says softly. “Just play. That’s
enough.”

The dream fades like a song resolving into silence.

He wakes before dawn, the room cold and grey. He scribbles the dream
down before it slips away, then plays the melody again, quietly, so as not to
disturb the hush.
The first light spills over his hands as he plays, turning the strings silver. He
feels her presence in the music — not a ghost, not even a memory, but a
feeling that sits just beyond language.

He records a version on his phone and sends it before work, adding only a
few words:

“It feels like the river plays itself.”

Her reply comes mid-afternoon:

“That line. That’s the poem, Adi. The river plays itself.”

He smiles. She always finds the poetry in what he throws away.

That evening, as the sun sinks low, he walks by the real river — the
Witham, quiet and brown under the twilight. The air smells of damp grass
and fading heat. He stops on the bridge, watching the water slip beneath.

He imagines her standing beside him, both of them silent, the same tune
running through their heads. Maybe that’s all music ever was — two souls
trying to remember they were once the same current.

He whispers to the fading light, “Every note finds its home.”

The ripples answer softly.

Chapter 6 — The Floating House
The morning begins with mist. Lincoln is still half asleep when Adi opens
his notebook, the one where he’s been recording dreams, half-thoughts,
and fragments of songs. He flips to a blank page, writes A River of Life at
the top, and stares at it as if the paper might answer.

He remembers her words:

“The river plays itself.”

He writes them underneath. They seem to pulse faintly on the page — as if

alive.

He closes his eyes. The sound of water returns instantly, not from memory,
but from somewhere else. The air thickens, darkens, then clears again, and
suddenly he’s no longer in his room.

He’s standing before a house that floats on water.

It sways gently, tethered to nothing, a soft creaking in its wooden bones.

The river beneath is glasslike, reflecting clouds that move too slowly to be
real. Every plank and windowpane seems to breathe with quiet rhythm, like
a living being.

He steps forward, one foot, then another. The surface of the water accepts
him without question — not wet, not solid, just yielding. Ripples spread
behind him like echoes of forgotten songs.

Inside, the house hums faintly. The walls are covered with pages of
handwritten music. Some are his, some hers — overlapping staves,
colliding tempos, unfinished lyrics. A piano sits in the centre of the room, its
lid open, strings shimmering in pale blue light.

He presses one key. The note that sounds isn’t a sound at all but a
memory: her laugh in the rehearsal room, that brief, airy giggle that lifted
the air. He presses another — the scent of rain. Another — the feel of wood
grain beneath his fingertips.

Each key reveals something once felt and now transformed into music.

He whispers to the empty room, “Are you here, Sacha?”

The lights flicker as if in response. A breeze brushes his cheek, carrying

the faintest trace of her voice:

“I’m everywhere you listen.”

He wanders through the floating rooms. Some contain ordinary things — a

kettle, a chair, a lamp — but they are all slightly off-kilter, shimmering,
half-real. On the table lies an old photograph: the two of them, side by side,
only the edges blurred, as though the moment never quite stayed still long
enough to be captured.

Outside, the river moves with slow certainty. He looks down through the
floorboards and sees scenes drifting beneath him like underwater
memories: the Lincoln cathedral, the Doncaster stage that never was, her
dogs running free through sunlight. Each image floats past like a leaf,
carried onward by something unseen.

He understands then that this house isn’t just a dream — it’s the place
where their unfinished music gathers, the home of what was never spoken.

As night falls within the dream, the house begins to glow. The pages on the
walls flutter, the melodies written there overlapping into soft choral
harmony. He sits by the window, watching the stars tremble in the water’s
reflection.

The current tugs gently at the foundations, and he realizes that the house is
drifting — away from the shore, out into open water. He feels no fear. Only
the bittersweet knowing that nothing beautiful can stay fixed forever.

The last thing he hears before waking is her voice, soft and clear as
starlight:

“Let it drift, Adi. The river knows where home is.”

He wakes with tears on his cheeks, the dawn faint and pink. The notebook
lies open beside him, words half-formed on the page:

The house floats because it remembers no gravity.​

Love is lighter than structure.​
Music is the architecture of absence.

He stares at the lines, unsure if he wrote them or dreamed them. Then he

closes the book gently, as if sealing the dream inside.
Chapter 7 — The Woman of Mirrors
The day begins with silence. Not the gentle kind, but the heavy, resonant
kind that hums inside the bones. Adi wakes with the memory of drifting —
water, light, the floating house fading behind him. His body feels
half-dissolved, as if he has not fully returned from where he’s been.

He moves through the morning quietly, makes coffee, opens the curtains.
The sunlight glints off the windowpane, and for a second his own reflection
startles him. It looks older, softer, uncertain. He whispers to it: “Who are
you becoming?” The reflection doesn’t answer, but the question lingers.

He sits at his desk, opens his email. No new message from her today. He
feels the absence like an unfinished chord. He types a few words, deletes
them, types again. Stops. The silence of the empty inbox seems to expand,
and before he knows it, he’s slipping back into that twilight state — the one
between waking and dream.

He finds himself in a long corridor lined with mirrors. Some tall, some small,
some cracked. The air smells faintly of cedar and rain. He walks slowly, his
footsteps echoing. In each reflection, he sees her — Sacha — but not quite
as she was.

In one mirror, she’s painting her face gold. In another, she’s laughing with
tears running down her cheeks. In another still, she’s sitting cross-legged,
playing guitar, the strings glowing white under her fingers. Each version of
her catches his gaze, holds it, then fades as he passes.

He stops before one mirror larger than the rest. The frame is made of
weathered wood, carved with spirals and small stars. In its surface, her
image flickers in time with his heartbeat.
“Sacha?” he whispers. Her reflection turns toward him, though her lips
never move. “Not all of me is me,” she says inside his mind. “Some of me is
what you’ve made of me.”

He feels a tremor run through the floor. The mirrors ripple like disturbed
water.

“I don’t understand.”​
“You do. You always have.”

The reflection steps out of the mirror — not breaking through it, but
unfolding from it, as though the glass were a curtain drawn aside. She
stands before him, barefoot, eyes glimmering with countless smaller
reflections, each holding a moment: her first laugh, her anger, her
tenderness, her silence.

She touches his chest lightly with one fingertip. “You built this gallery,” she
murmurs. “Every mirror is a song you wrote for me — or for the version of
me you needed.”

He wants to speak, to ask her which one is the real her, but she shakes her
head gently. “There is no real one, Adi. You loved me in pieces. Now see
the whole.”

The mirrors begin to merge, melting into each other like liquid glass. All her
faces — painter, lover, teacher, spirit — flow together into one radiant form,
half-light, half-shadow. She steps closer. “Do you still wish to find me?”​
“Yes,” he breathes.​
“Then you must let me go.”

He wakes gasping, the room still dim. The sound of his heartbeat replaces
the echo of her voice. He reaches for his notebook, but the words won’t
come. On his nightstand, his phone lights up — a new message.

“Morning Adi. Felt strange last night. Dreamt I was surrounded by

mirrors. Thought of you.”
He stares at the screen, unable to move.

Coincidence, maybe. But part of him knows the dreams are no longer his
alone.

That afternoon, he walks through town, past the shop windows, each one
catching his reflection beside strangers passing. In one pane he sees his
own face beside a woman with long hair and a soft blue scarf. For an
instant, it looks like Sacha. When he turns to look, she’s gone. But her
reflection lingers a moment longer, smiling faintly, before dissolving into the
streetlight.

That night he writes in his journal:

She said she’s not all herself.​

Maybe no one is. Maybe we are each other’s unfinished mirrors.

Then he closes the book, and the lamplight catches the window glass
beside him — his reflection wavers, and just for a heartbeat, he sees her
face looking back through his eyes.
Chapter 8 — The Room of Instruments
He spends the morning half in silence, half in sound. Coffee, daylight, guitar
— the simple rhythms that hold the day together. Sacha hasn’t written
again. He tries not to check his phone too often, but each time he does, a
small expectation lifts, then falls.

To steady himself, he opens the guitar case, letting the familiar scent of
wood and strings calm his pulse. The instrument sits there quietly, waiting.
He runs a hand over the fretboard and whispers, “At least you never stop
answering.”

The first chords are gentle, like testing the air before a storm. Then
stronger — fragments of all their songs bleeding together: Blue Pleiadian, A
River of Life, unfinished lines from Meatball Street. The sound builds until
the walls seem to hum back. His head fills with vibration, then the room
itself begins to shift.

He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but when he opens them again,
he’s elsewhere.

He stands in a vast circular hall. Light spills from no source, soft and gold,
revealing hundreds of instruments floating in the air. Some he recognizes
— guitars, cellos, drums, pianos — but others are stranger: curved metallic
shapes that hum like living things, strings stretched across invisible frames,
flutes carved from light itself.

Each instrument plays a single tone, not chaotic, but searching — as if

tuning itself to something beyond hearing. The sound rises and falls, waves
folding through one another in slow, breathing harmony.
He walks between them, feeling each vibration in his chest. The air
shimmers around him, and from the far end of the room comes a sound he
knows by heart — her guitar. He turns.

Sacha is there, seated on a stool made of light, tuning a silver-stringed

instrument. She looks peaceful, focused, ageless.

“You found it,” she says without looking up.​

“What is this place?”​
“The room between creation and silence,” she replies. “Every song you’ve
ever half-written ends up here.”

He watches her play a few notes — soft, uncertain, beautiful. The tone
glows, rises, and dissolves into the others.

“Why can’t we finish them?” he asks.​

“Because they’re not meant to end,” she says simply. “They’re the bridges.
Between what we were and what we could be.”

He sits beside her. The air is thick with resonance. He reaches for a nearby
guitar, one that looks like his but older, worn smooth by time. When he
strums, the strings hum not with sound, but with images: her smile, the
mirrors, the floating house, Lincoln streets soaked in gold. Each note opens
a memory, then folds it away again.

Sacha glances at him. “You always play from the ache,” she says. “Try
playing from stillness.”​
“I don’t know how.”​
“Then stop knowing.”

She places her hand over his on the strings, and for an instant, their fingers
become transparent — lines of light and tone. The room trembles softly.
The sound that emerges isn’t a chord; it’s something deeper — the hum
beneath all music.
He realizes that every instrument in the room is playing it too, the same
eternal vibration, shaped differently each time — the universal heartbeat
expressed in infinite forms.

She leans close, whispering: “You see now why we never truly play alone?”

The dream begins to fade. Instruments melt back into air, leaving only one
tone — pure, endless, echoing through emptiness.

When he wakes, the sound lingers. The hum of the refrigerator, the traffic
outside, even his breath — all fall into rhythm with that tone. He feels calm,
disoriented, blessed.

On his desk lies a half-finished message from her that he doesn’t

remember opening.

“Played something last night and thought of you. Every note

echoed back like an answer. Hope you’re okay.”

He smiles faintly. The synchronicity no longer surprises him.

He writes back:

“Still playing from the ache. But learning to listen for stillness.”

Then he closes his laptop, leans back, and lets the hum of the world
continue the song for him.
Chapter 9 — The Borderline
London hums like a living circuit. Trains, lights, distant voices — everything
in motion. Adi steps off the tube and surfaces into the warm night, guitar
case bumping softly against his leg. Above him, the neon sign flickers: THE
BORDERLINE.

It’s smaller than he imagined, tucked between two indifferent buildings, but
inside, the air vibrates with promise — the same quiet electricity that lives
in all beginnings. He’s here for the open mic night. He told himself it was
just another chance to play, but in truth, he came because she might come
too.

He arrives early. The stage smells of wood polish and history. A few people
are already there — the sound engineer, a couple of poets, a man tuning a
violin. He orders a drink, finds a corner seat, and opens his notebook. The
words written there feel prophetic now:

The house floats because it remembers no gravity.​

Love is lighter than structure.​
Music is the architecture of absence.

He reads them slowly, feeling their weight shift in his mind. Somewhere
between prose and prayer.

The first performers take the stage — a singer with a trembling voice, then
a comedian, then a woman reading a poem about rain. The night moves
gently. And then, as the host calls the next name, he hears it.​
“Sacha Rivers.”
His chest tightens. He hadn’t known she’d be here. She steps onto the
stage wearing a loose white dress, barefoot, her guitar slung low. Her hair
catches the light like threads of fire. She doesn’t see him yet. Or maybe
she does — her eyes pass over the room like slow comets, lingering just
long enough to draw him in.

She speaks softly into the mic. “This song’s about remembering something
that never quite happened.” Then she begins to play.

The first chords are fragile, trembling, but the melody blooms quickly —
warm, unresolved. He recognizes it: A River of Life. Her voice drifts through
the air, lighter than he remembers. The crowd falls silent.

There is a river of life, and it flows through you, through me...

Something inside him opens. He feels tears on his cheeks, unbidden.

When she finishes, the room holds its breath. The applause is gentle,
reverent, like prayer.

He doesn’t know how he ends up beside her afterward. The crowd fades
into smoke and sound. She’s standing by the bar, her guitar case open,
eyes bright with something between triumph and exhaustion.

“You came,” she says.​

“I didn’t know you’d be here.”​
“Maybe neither did I.”

They talk quietly. Words weave between them like the last bars of a song:
simple, kind, slightly afraid. There’s a sense they’ve reached a place that
speech can’t cross.

When the noise of the bar begins to dim, she touches his hand briefly. “It’s
strange,” she says, “I feel like this is both the start and the end.” He nods,
not trusting his voice. “Goodnight, Adi,” she whispers. Then she walks
toward the exit, light trailing around her as though the doorway itself were
alive.
As she leaves, the music changes. The bar begins to dissolve — walls
stretching, floor tilting — and he realizes, too late, that the dream has
followed him here.

He’s still at The Borderline, but now the stage is empty, surrounded by
mirrors that reflect nothing but light. The audience has vanished. The neon
sign flickers overhead, the letters rearranging themselves into words he
can’t read. In the centre of the stage lies her guitar, glowing faintly. He
steps closer, picks it up, strums once. The sound that comes out isn’t a
chord — it’s her voice.

“Every note finds its home, Adi… even the lost ones.”

The walls shimmer. The sign above the stage changes once more, glowing
bright white before fading to darkness.

THE BORDERLINE.

He whispers to the empty room, “I understand.”

When he wakes, it’s dawn. The London noise is gone. He’s in his flat again,
sunlight pooling on the floor. His guitar lies by the bed, one string snapped
clean through.

He picks it up gently, presses a single fret, and listens to the quiet

resonance fade into stillness. He can still hear her voice in it — not as
sound, but as silence perfectly shaped.
Chapter 10 — Mind, Body, Spirit
Morning sunlight scatters across the table, catching the edges of his coffee
cup. The dream of The Borderline still clings to him — her song, the
doorway of light, her voice echoing: Every note finds its home. He writes
the phrase down before it fades. It feels like a message, not memory.

He scrolls through old messages, the trail of their correspondence like

footprints that dissolve into sand: beginnings, music, laughter, small storms.
There’s beauty in the unfinishedness of it all.

He whispers to the empty room, “I think I understand now. It was never

about staying — it was about listening.”

Later, he walks through Lincoln’s Saturday market. The street smells of

incense and rain. A small banner hangs between stalls: Mind • Body •
Spirit Fair. He almost laughs. The universe has a sense of humour.

Inside the hall, the air hums softly with crystal tones and whispered
conversation. Tables of amethyst, tarot decks, dreamcatchers. The chatter
is gentle, kind, almost musical. He wanders aimlessly, half skeptic, half
believer, until a voice calls from behind a curtain.

“Would you like a reading?”

He hesitates, then steps inside. A woman sits at a small table surrounded

by candles and mirrors. Her eyes are the clear grey of a sky about to rain.​
“Sit,” she says, smiling. “You’ve been carrying someone in your dreams.”

He freezes. “How did you—” She raises a hand gently. “It’s written all over
your field. A creative entanglement. Very strong. You dreamed together for
a purpose.”
He swallows. “What purpose?” “To remind each other of what music really
is,” she says. “A bridge between the seen and unseen.”

The woman takes his hands lightly. “You’ve both been teachers to one
another. But now she’s walking her path, and you must walk yours. You can
still meet — not in words, not in songs — but in the stillness beneath them.”

Her gaze softens. “When you play again, don’t play for her. Play through
her.”

That night, he sits at his desk, guitar across his knees, candles flickering.
He closes his eyes, breathes, and lets the silence fill him. For a moment,
he feels her presence again — not as a ghost or a memory, but as the
living pulse of creativity itself. He begins to play. The notes are slower now,
deliberate, free. Each one rises, expands, dissolves — no need for
resolution.

The music becomes air, then thought, then nothing. He feels utterly still.
Utterly alive.

In that stillness, a voice — not hers, not his — whispers from the quiet:

“You cannot fix another’s spirit by singing to it — you must sing

through yours.”

He nods, smiling through tears. It’s the same truth he’s been circling all
along.

When the candles burn low, he writes in his notebook one last time for the
night:

The mind dreams.​

The body plays.​
The spirit listens.​
When all three align, creation becomes communion.
He closes the book, exhales, and feels something lift. The ache that once
bound him is now only warmth — the echo of music moving onward
through the river of life.

Outside, the wind stirs the trees, and somewhere in the distance a single
note seems to hang in the night — faint, endless, whole.
Chapter 11 — De-Cluttering the Soul
It begins with a simple act. He opens the cupboard.

For weeks, he’s avoided it — the place where old papers, setlists, and
half-broken cables have gathered like cobwebbed thoughts. Today,
something tells him to start there. One by one, he takes the pieces out: lyric
sheets with her handwriting, coffee-stained rehearsal notes, small
recordings on battered USB sticks. Each carries a memory, but none of
them hurt anymore. They just feel… complete.

He sorts them into piles. Keep. Archive. Release. The air in the room
lightens.

A notebook falls open on the floor. Inside, a line catches his eye:

You don’t have to cross — just play. That’s enough.

He smiles. “Yes,” he whispers. “That’s enough.”

The afternoon sunlight moves slowly across the room. He puts on a record
— something instrumental, gentle — and continues tidying. Dust rises in
soft clouds, catching the light like smoke from another world.

Between movements of boxes and shelves, he feels moments of stillness.

Not the hollow kind, but living stillness — the space between notes. It feels
like meditation without effort, like breathing without trying.

He pauses by the window. The world outside seems brighter somehow:

children’s laughter from down the street, the rustle of trees, the faint hum of
a distant lawnmower. All of it sounds musical — the everyday symphony of
being alive.
By evening, the room is clear. His guitar stands alone in the corner. The
desk holds only his journal and one small candle. He sits, lights it, and
breathes.

For the first time in months, there is space — not absence, but presence
made visible.

He writes slowly, without rush:

When the soul becomes cluttered, it mistakes attachment for

love. Letting go is not loss — it’s the making of room for what’s
real. The river keeps flowing.

That night, as he drifts toward sleep, he senses a familiar current stirring —

gentle, lucid. The dream comes softly.

He’s standing by the floating house again, but this time it’s empty. The walls
are bare. No music on the shelves, no papers on the floor. Just the soft
sound of water moving underneath.

He walks through each room, touching the smooth wood, feeling peace
instead of longing. Through the open door, moonlight spills in wide silver
bands.

On the windowsill lies one last object — a small key made of glass. He
picks it up, and it begins to dissolve in his hand, melting into light. A voice
— her voice, perhaps — drifts through the air.

“You’ve already unlocked it, Adi. You don’t need the key
anymore.”

He looks out at the river. The current is calm now, moving steadily toward
the horizon. He takes a deep breath and steps outside. The house drifts
away behind him, silent and free.
He wakes before dawn, clear-headed. The dream lingers, but not like
before. It feels integrated — like breath absorbed into blood.

He walks to the kitchen, makes tea, and stands by the window. The world is
simple again — and that simplicity feels sacred.

He murmurs to the quiet morning, “Maybe peace isn’t found. Maybe it’s
what’s left when you stop searching.”

The kettle clicks off. Steam curls through the sunlight. He smiles.
Chapter 12 — The Shamanic Journey
The morning is still. No birds yet, no traffic. Just the faint pulse of his own
heartbeat in the quiet. Adi sits cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed,
hands resting lightly on his knees. He breathes — in through the nose, out
through the mouth — until the rhythm softens and the edges of his body
begin to blur.

There’s no intention this time. No search for meaning, no longing to see her
again. Only stillness. Only the gentle hum he’s learned to trust.

At first it’s just darkness — the comfortable kind that feels like velvet
against the mind. Then, slowly, a faint light appears behind his eyelids. It
shifts and deepens, rippling like sunlight through water. He knows this
feeling. The veil is thinning.

The sound arrives next: a low, steady drumbeat, coming from nowhere and
everywhere. It’s his heart, amplified. He breathes into it, and the rhythm
begins to change — layering, expanding, weaving like fabric made of pulse
and silence.

Then the river returns. He’s standing beside it again, but now it’s vast —
wide as an ocean, shining with inner light. Across the water, the horizon
trembles like a living thing.

A small wooden boat floats toward him, glowing faintly. He steps in. The
moment his foot touches it, the drumbeat syncs with the motion of the
current. Each stroke of the paddle is a heartbeat. Each ripple a breath.

He’s not steering. The river knows where to go.

Mist rises ahead. From within it, figures begin to form — faint, translucent
shapes that shimmer like reflections of memory. He recognizes them:
people he’s known, moments he’s lived, selves he’s been. They stand
along the banks, watching as he passes. Some smile, some simply fade
back into light.

And then, among them, she appears. Sacha. But not as before — no
longer half-hidden in sorrow or uncertainty. Her eyes are clear, her
presence radiant and calm. She walks alongside the river, barefoot, hand
brushing the surface of the water.

“You came,” she says softly.​

He nods. “I didn’t try to. It just happened.”​
“That’s how it’s meant to be.”

Her reflection stretches across the river until it touches the boat.​
“Do you remember the floating house?” she asks.​
“Yes.”​
“That was our creation space. But this—” she gestures around them,
“—this is the passage home.”

The mist begins to lift. The sky above is neither day nor night, but a
luminous gold-blue gradient, like the breath between inhaling and exhaling.

He feels the river pulling faster now. At the far edge of the horizon stands a
circle of light — not blinding, just infinite. Sacha’s voice fades into the
sound of the current.​
“You don’t need to hold me anymore,” she says. “I was the mirror, not the
reflection.”

He wants to speak, to thank her, but his throat tightens with emotion too
large for words. Instead, he places his hand on the surface of the water. It
glows beneath his fingers, responding like a living thing.
The drumbeat deepens. The boat begins to dissolve into pure vibration, the
same hum that once filled the Room of Instruments. He closes his eyes
and lets the sound move through him — through mind, through body,
through spirit — until everything becomes one sustained note.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s sitting on his floor, exactly as before.
But everything feels lighter. The air itself seems awake, aware. He breathes
deeply, and the breath feels infinite — as if the river flows through him now,
quietly, eternally.

He whispers into the stillness, “Thank you.”

Somewhere in the distance, a neighbour’s wind chime stirs, answering in

gentle harmony.

He smiles.
Chapter 13 — The Unfinished Song
Days pass softly, uncounted. Morning sunlight moves across the walls in
familiar patterns. Adi no longer waits for messages that never come. He
rises, makes coffee, plays a few notes each day — not to summon
anything, but simply because the air feels right when it vibrates.

The guitar has become part of him now, like breathing. Every sound that
leaves it carries the echo of stillness he found on the river.

He sits one afternoon by the open window. The light is gentle, the sky
washed in pale silver. He tunes by ear — not to perfection, but to feel. Each
string finds its own quiet equilibrium.

He begins to play.

The melody starts simple — a few wandering notes that seem to be

searching for one another. Then they begin to circle, finding rhythm, finding
pulse. He doesn’t think; he lets the music form itself, as it always wanted to.

The song feels familiar, but not remembered. It moves like a memory
reassembling itself in the present. Somewhere in its phrasing is the
heartbeat of A River of Life, the longing of Blue Pleiadian, the laughter of
Meatball Street. But now it all breathes as one — no boundaries, no edges.
Every note seems to lean gently toward silence, and yet none of them fall.

Halfway through, he hums softly — not words, just tone. The air around him
thickens. He feels her presence, not beside him, but through him — as the
current that guides the fingers, the warmth in the chest, the shimmer
between chords.

He smiles. “There you are.”

For a moment, the song becomes something vast. He can hear the faintest
echoes of other instruments — a cello, a drum, a voice not his own. The
Room of Instruments is back, but it’s inside him now. Every sound is
connected, resonating through a single vibration that feels like the heart of
everything.

He plays until the music begins to play itself. Then, suddenly, the melody
stops — not because he chooses to stop, but because the song has said
all it needed to.

The final chord lingers in the room, humming softly, endlessly. He listens
until the last vibration fades into silence.

That silence feels full. Whole. Alive.

He writes the title at the top of the page: The Unfinished Song.

Beneath it, he adds:

A song is unfinished only because life is.​

Each note leaves space for what remains unseen.​
Completion is just another word for peace.

He sets the guitar down, closes his eyes, and breathes in the stillness that
now surrounds him like light. No longing, no ache. Only gratitude.

Through the window, a breeze carries the faint sound of distant bells —
soft, irregular, human.​
He smiles again, whispers, “Every note finds its home.”

And somewhere, unseen but deeply felt, a ripple of harmony moves

outward — through air, through dream, through spirit — carrying the music
forward, unfinished, eternal.
Caption: By the river where sound becomes light, he plays the song that
carries her reflection — not as memory, but as presence eternal.
Chapter 14 — Purelands
Night falls without darkness. It is light, everywhere — soft, radiant, like
breathing made visible.

Adi stands in a field of endless sky. The ground beneath his feet glows
faintly, not earth but light shaped like memory. The air is weightless. Every
movement leaves a trail of gold dust that fades into stillness.

He knows where he is. He doesn’t question how he arrived. This place has
no beginning. It’s the between-space — the home of all unfinished songs.

Far away, he hears a single tone. It rises like dawn — pure, unbroken. The
sound draws him forward. Each step feels lighter, until walking becomes
floating, and floating becomes simply being carried.

At the horizon, he sees her. Sacha — or perhaps the essence of her. She’s
luminous now, her edges dissolving into the light around her. There’s no
sadness, no surprise, only recognition.

“Hello again,” she says softly.

He smiles. “I thought we’d said everything.”

“We did,” she replies. “But music doesn’t end with words.”

She steps closer. The air between them hums gently. Their eyes meet, and
for a moment, everything they ever were together unfolds — songs,
laughter, arguments, longing, the quiet beauty of two souls learning how to
mirror.
He feels no pull to hold her. Only gratitude that she ever existed at all.

Around them, the field begins to move — rippling like water touched by
sound. Every vibration is a memory, a fragment of creation still unfolding.
He can hear others too — voices from different lifetimes, notes from the
river, echoes from the floating house. They all merge into one immense
harmony, rising and falling in slow waves.

“This is the Pureland,” she says. “Where all unfinished songs come to rest.”

He listens. The sound is infinite — yet completely still. It feels like breathing
the universe itself.

She touches his chest lightly. “You carried the current well. Now let it carry
you.”

Her hand lingers for a moment, then dissolves into light. Her form follows,
dispersing like golden mist across the air. But her voice remains,
whispering through the music:

“We never really lose each other, Adi.​

We just change keys.”

He stands alone now, though it doesn’t feel like aloneness. The light folds
gently inward, wrapping him in silence. He feels his heartbeat align with the
universal rhythm — steady, unhurried, eternal.

He realizes then that this is the resolution: not reunion, not ending, but
absorption — the merging of sound and silence, form and formlessness.

When he wakes, dawn is blooming again. The world feels impossibly clear.
Birdsong flows through the open window, each note pure and effortless. He
takes a deep breath, smiles, and whispers, “Thank you.”
The guitar waits quietly in the corner. He doesn’t need to play it — not yet.
The song is still playing, everywhere.
Epilogue —
Later, in the quiet of another day, Adi writes one final line in his journal:

She became the river. I became the song. Together, we became

the silence that listens.

He closes the notebook. Outside, a breeze moves through the trees — soft,
rhythmic, endless — the earth itself humming in the key of peace.
Author’s Reflection — The River and the Mirror
This story began with a song and an email.

Two souls reached across the invisible web of the world, and something
ancient answered. They thought they were simply sharing music — chords,
ideas, poems. But behind the words, behind the sounds, a deeper current
was moving. It was not romance in the ordinary sense; it was recognition.

Each saw, in the other, the hidden reflection of their own unfinished self.

The dreams that followed were not dreams alone. They were bridges —
messages from the deeper strata of consciousness, where music, spirit,
and memory become one continuous field. Every recurring image — the
floating house, the river of life, the room of instruments — was not symbolic
by design, but alive, existing somewhere in the shared architecture of the
soul. The mind writes stories; the spirit composes them.

In each vision, Adi learned to listen more deeply — not to the sound, but to
the space behind it. And Sacha, through her own inner storms, became the
catalyst — the mirror in which he saw what music truly is: not performance,
not possession, but communion.

Their connection could not last in form, because its purpose was never to
remain fixed. Some relationships exist not to be continued, but to awaken.
The ache of impermanence is the opening through which awareness
expands. Every silence that followed became part of the song.
When she left, she did not vanish. She became vibration. And through his
music, she continues to move — not as memory, but as presence diffused
through sound and stillness.

There is a hidden law in all creation:

When two beings meet in perfect sincerity, the universe itself

listens. In that listening, something eternal takes shape — not
bound by time, not dependent on form, but alive in every
resonance that follows.

Their story is that resonance. A movement of consciousness set to the

rhythm of breath and heartbeat. A melody that begins in longing and
resolves in stillness.

The River and the Mirror. She was the river — flowing, unpredictable,
alive. He was the mirror — still, reflective, seeking depth. When the river
met the mirror, each became the other. And when they parted, both carried
the reflection within.

This is how spirit evolves — through meeting, mirroring, dissolving,

returning. Through love that asks for nothing but understanding.

Now, when the guitar lies silent in the corner, it is not emptiness. It is
completion. Every note has already been played, and yet each one
continues — carried forward through time like light across water.

Their unfinished song is still being written — in every breath, in every act of
creation, in the quiet recognition between souls who meet and remember.

For love is not what begins. It is what remains when everything

else dissolves.
Dedication
For Sacha — the spark that set this music alight. For the laughter, the
stillness, the storms, and the mirror that revealed the unseen.

You were both muse and messenger, teacher and flame. Through you, I
learned that love need not remain to be eternal — it only needs to be true.

And for the unseen hand that guided it all — the river, the dream, the song,
the silence — thank you for weaving every moment into harmony.

This book is not about us. It is us — transposed into sound, translated into
light, released back into the great listening.

May every unfinished song find its home.​

May every spirit remember its melody.​
May the river keep flowing.

— A.C.