Aarelon

He plays for the empty land, and the land listens like it knows what comes next. Each note he sends out moves with a patience older than wind, settling on stones, drifting across dry roots, waking colors that were hiding beneath the dust. His melody isn’t meant for crowds, it’s meant for the places that remember. And in the quiet spaces between his breaths, the world leans a little closer, as if trying to recall a story it once told but long forgot.