He winds up the Nightingale, just to listen to that soft melody one more time.

The melody only he in the entire world knew the meaning of.

A meaning that would die with him.

“Ha, isn’t Fate such an artist?” He thought to himself loudly.

“The memory. The memory of yore, is dying within a spell of Time.

The Past erasing the Future, the Future erasing the Past.

Will this cataclism ever ends. Will Tragedy perish at last?”

The Nightingale stopped singing.

“Will Hope find it’s way to the Child’s Heart?”

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