We open inside applause — a live hall, the clapping already thinning.

The applause thins to almost nothing, and the hall settles into a hush.

Plucked strings open the piece — quiet, widely spaced notes in the hall.

Sustained strings rise over the plucking, a light pulse underneath, and the harmony begins to move.

A tenor voice enters softly, close and unforced, just above the strings.

The voice leans out a little more — more breath, more body — the strings sparse below it.

The voice presses now, and the orchestra thickens beneath it.

Under a long held note, the orchestra swells — then eases back.

A new phrase lifts the voice, and the strings run brighter beneath it.

The line climbs once more, and the orchestra opens wide beneath it.

Then the support thins away — the voice nearly alone in the hall — and the line lifts, long and unbroken.

One more lift, and the pressure lets go; the music settles back, unhurried.

The last singing ends held and bright, and the orchestra carries the close alone.

The ending gathers once more, then eases into its long final stretch.

One long, unbroken line now — sustained strings, barely moving, the hall blooming around them.

A final chord — held, ringing, slowly fading into the hall.

And the hall answers: applause, sudden and wide.