From the Artist
"His hands still remember, even after everything else has started to slip. This was once the tune of village festivals, the kind played at harvest gatherings and wedding evenings. Most of the people who knew it by heart are gone now, and the instrument itself has become rare, the kind you only find in old attics or grandfathers' hands.
He learned it as a boy, watching his own father's fingers move the same way, and somehow, decades later, the memory in his hands has outlasted almost everyone who once danced to it. He does not play for an audience anymore. The forest around him keeps attendance. He simply plays it once more, quietly, for the people who used to listen, and for himself, before the tune fades from memory the way everything eventually does."