A small, cold line hangs in a wide dark space. There's a pulse now, but it doesn't settle into a groove. It just gives the silence a shape.

The harmony has gathered underneath the upper line. It's open, but no longer empty.

The harmonic field starts to gain weight. Nothing pushes forward. The low harmonies simply deepen.

Even now, nothing gets louder. The sound just thickens, slowly.

The pattern starts to come apart. The held shape reaches its widest point, and then everything loosens.

The melody comes back, but it feels remembered rather than newly played. The movement is circular. Walking around something quiet, not wanting to disturb it. The texture has thinned since the crest. What remains is the upper line and the space around it.

The final release begins. The sound drains away in stages. Nothing breaking, nothing resolved with a heavy hand.

And then just silence. The room the piece created, left behind.