In which we remember.

When Brin begins to play, the storm holds her breath.

As the notes flicker across the skyline, she throws her head back and howls with delight.

Black waters dance to his pick, throwing themselves against rock to the rhythm of his feet. 

And the wind chases the melody across the heathers between the headlands. 

Ah, how he plays. 

On such nights, windows are latched fast, Agas lit, and lights burn low.

On such nights, rain taps on single-glazed panes with a constant beat.

On such nights, Brin leads the storm.

And dances on waves.

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