I still remember those voices. I remember the mountain wind brushing over imaginary fields, the rustling grass around us. I recall the stream just reaching our calves, its babbling waters flowing past us, through the riverbed. Fins nibbled at our toes then. I remember your white sword, and the stone bed beneath me, colder than the stream. I recall your carefulness, the tip of your white sword against the newly created soul. They quivered from the magic, ringing loudly. You stopped your carving, you hesitated—was it happiness or sorrow? Do not feel guilty, nor apologize, Shining. Listen, the first note of this night song began sooner than you thought. I certainly remember the dried bloodlines that accompanied it, ninety thousand sinful names, and like the vilest curse, wishing to silence us. But do you remember why that pure white suddenly grew warm, why the new soul no longer resisted your sword's tip? Why, in the heavy twilight, could a blue fowlbeast break free from the narrow sky? So small, so fragile, yet its down left a soft glow in your eyes and that silent white. Listen, I still remember. In that moment, the blade and the pure white resonated; I heard your life bloom along the blade's edge, and the parched sheath could sing anew. The first soul I healed was at the sword's other end. Shining, do not ask me to tell memories from illusions. I never meant to forsake those echoes. They are all part of my night song. Dry your tears, Shining. Let me sing it for you.