He has forgotten the melody of his hometown,
so he tells a story.
A story about a giant oak tree,
about the wind that carries the scent of pine…
about the chirping of mockingbirds.
A small hut by the river,
where fish are plenty—
he does not need a fishing rod.
He only places a straw basket in the water,
and the fish will leap into it.
That was his home.
A place he left long ago.
He looks at his flute—
an old flute from his hometown,
one he never played
until he forgot how it was supposed to sound.
The melody of his village…
faded.
He sits beneath an oak tree—
not the one he used to sit under as a child.
There is no scent of pine here.
The birds sing differently.
He lifts the flute
and begins to play.
A melody he learned from his journey.
A melody
about the death of an immortal—
not fading away…
but being forgotten.
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