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Sophia says nothing. They have answered for her. She does not need to speak.
The man does not play music. The man is music.
The grass she lands on feels cool and damp against her hot cheeks. The night wind pilfers through the trees looking for fruit to steal. It prickles the skin on her back. She rolls over in the deep blue-dappled grass and opens her eyes onto the billion stars over Arcadia. They give up nothing; they only shine as they were told to do.
It all burns away and the ashes slip from her fingers and she can never love anything ever again.
