A sad evening. What the music itself argues is persistence. For ten and a half minutes it never stops carrying the listener; its swells gather, exhale, and gather again, held in a suspended, breathing weight rather than crushed beneath one. The sorrow keeps circulating because the vitality keeps insisting on itself.

The decisive moment comes once: the orchestra climbs to its fiercest crest and then breaks off, cut to a cold, echoing quiet where a lone violin sings, fragile, nearly unaccompanied. The storm passes; one voice remains. After that, the close refuses drama — it lets go in stages, thinning until the last audible thing is the decay of the room. No tragic final chord, no consolation. Just an evening withdrawing into silence.