A harp alone — soft rolled chords out of silence, each left to ring before the next.

The strings enter beneath — a high, unhurried line beginning its first long phrase, the harp still turning underneath.

The first gentle crest, and the line settles back down again.

A soft swell — warmth and presence rising together through the strings.

The melody sinks into the cellos — the same singing a full chest lower, darker and thicker in grain.

The whole body swells now — violins pressing high above the cello line, warmth crowding in.

Then it's spent — the swell empties out, harp notes dropping one by one through the quiet.

Another rise — softer this time, all the strings reaching upward as one body.

The bed thins until a single violin is nearly alone, floating above it.

Then the long climb — the violins ascending, the mass beneath them thickening step by step.

The full-voiced crest eases over and pours down now, a long descending sigh.

What remains is spare — one violin lingering high while the lower strings return beneath it, a dark current under the thin line.

From here the music lets go in stages — each phrase settling a little further down.

A steadier stretch — longer breaths, the pressure held rather than pushed.

The sound lets itself down into near-silence — twice — then begins again from almost nothing.

The music settles into a long, even stride, unhurried.

A swell eases over and settles back — the return breathing out.

The pressure turns again — gathering now, leaning forward.

A long press builds — the whole body of strings bearing down on the phrase.

And it lets go — everything beginning to settle.

The last chords come one at a time, each left to fade before the next.

The final chord just decays away — nothing after it but silence.