The haunting sound of his vase-like flute filled the air. Sylus was prone to disappearing late at night. He’d settle himself at the table and chairs on the roof of the diner and play for the broken moon. I think it called to him and he sang his song in return.

Ever since we first met, his song was somewhere on his lips. He’d hum it from time to time and I learned how to play it for myself. It was the most powerful spell in my arsenal. In battle, I could work his song into one of my own. Much like our souls, the notes blended together into a song for both our souls.

Pained yet hopeful, I’d made his notes part of my own life’s ballad.

A hun, he called it, the vase he played. Aetherial and haunting. A somber serenade for the end of the world. One of the few kind gestures his mother ever did for him.

Three chairs sat around the table on the rooftop. The side that faced the horrible moon and raging tides remained open. Looking straight out was the seat I’d had since I was a child. To the right, would be where my father sat. To the left, where Sylus had come to sit, was Ma’s chair.

I brought my guitar around front and began playing along with him.

Our music, though distinct, melded together. We knew who we were, but together we were so much more.

I’d play variations on his song, and he’d follow me along.

Outside of battle, it was the purest expression of our souls. All that we were dancing between us.

In these moments, our worlds would become one.

We would play until the sun rose. The moon still hanging in the now-sunlit sky.

He trailed off with a low, longing note. My own song tapered off.

He held his instrument in his hand, turning it over.

Dawn had broken.