The Song We Didn't Know

“Some stories don’t start with words. Sometimes, they begin with a single note that no one dares interrupt.”

Luke and I made our way back to the campfire, where the atmosphere had blossomed into something vibrant and alive. The low murmur of voices rose and fell in waves, punctuated by bursts of laughter that danced across the clearing like fireflies. There was an ease to the scene now, a rhythm that spoke of comfort found in shared stories, shared meals, and shared uncertainty. The warmth of camaraderie, fragile but genuine, knitted us together against the unfamiliar wilderness pressing in at the edges.

I found my spot beside Chris, his shoulder a familiar anchor in a sea of unfamiliarity. As I sank down beside him, his body leaned ever so slightly towards mine in acknowledgement—silent, steady, and deeply reassuring. I allowed myself a small sigh of contentment, the kind born not from peace, exactly, but from the quiet understanding that—for tonight—we were safe, fed, and together.

The sun began its slow retreat behind the jagged silhouette of distant mountains, streaking the sky with ribbons of burnt orange, rose pink, and smudges of violet that looked painted by some celestial hand. The air turned cooler by degrees, a soft hush falling over the camp as nature gently reminded us of the passage of time. The warmth of the fire became more than comfort—it was necessity now, drawing us closer in both proximity and spirit.

I pulled my jacket tighter around me, the coarse fabric brushing against my skin, and let my gaze linger on the horizon. It was a breathtaking view, made all the more poignant by our circumstances. Despite everything—the dust, the uncertainty, the aching questions that still hovered unanswered—this moment shimmered with a kind of sacred stillness. Beauty and hardship woven together into the same strange tapestry.

And as the campfire flickered, casting golden light onto the faces of those around me, I felt an unexpected swell of gratitude. For this night. For this circle. For this second chance, however unfinished or uncertain it might be.

Suddenly, a raspy hum of a voice carried on the breeze, threading its way through the crackle of the fire and the low murmur of conversation. The words emerged soft, deliberate, and somehow solemn:

“Let us celebrate our story
The words we’ve yet to write.”

I turned instinctively, scanning the faces around the fire. The voice was unfamiliar in song, though something about its tone tugged at a memory. To my surprise, it was Joel. He sat slightly apart from the group, his posture slouched, but his presence unmistakable. The young man who so rarely spoke now allowed a melody to spill from him—tentative, yes, but hauntingly beautiful.

Joel’s voice, though roughened by strain or perhaps disuse, had a raw quality to it that caught me off guard. There was something deeply human in its imperfections, as though every breath carried the weight of something unspoken. The lyrics themselves were sparse, but they reverberated with meaning, drifting into the quiet spaces between us like a whisper of collective hope.

Joel’s presence among us had always felt a little spectral. He was here, but not quite of here—his past wrapped in silence, his pain guarded behind half-glances and long stretches spent in his tent. The whispered fragments of conversation I’d overheard during my time here hinted at something devastating. Something final.

From what Chris and I had managed to piece together, Joel had been presumed dead before his inexplicable arrival in Clivilius. That very notion—that someone could return from such an absolute—had unsettled me more than I cared to admit. Death, once so immutable, now seemed... permeable. And no one, not even Luke, had offered clarity on the matter. There were questions hanging around Joel like smoke, but none of us dared to fan the air and ask them outright.

More recently, I’d begun to notice the subtle protectiveness in Jamie’s manner whenever he was near Joel. The way he lingered outside his tent. The way his gaze softened imperceptibly when Joel neared. It was only then that the truth had quietly dawned on me—Jamie was his father. Another thread in the ever-unfolding web of revelation this place insisted on spinning.

As Joel sang, something in his tone reached into me—a delicate, aching vulnerability that caught me off-guard. For all our talk of survival, tools, and soil, this… this was a kind of survival too. A reclaiming. Of voice, of identity, of belonging. In the flickering light, faces once defined by stoicism or uncertainty softened. People paused, listened. No one interrupted.

His words—simple, melodic—were more than just lyrics. They were a pledge. A quiet invitation to keep building something new from the broken fragments we’d all carried here.

And as I sat amongst my unlikely companions, wrapped in firelight and song, I felt a quiet swell of kinship. We were more than castaways now. We were storytellers—authors of a strange, shared chapter that had only just begun.

Glenda’s sudden movement, sharp and unexpected, shattered the quiet enchantment that Joel’s fragile tune had cast across our fire-lit circle. She rose to her feet so swiftly that a few heads turned instinctively, eyes wide with surprise. Joel, caught mid-line, faltered and fell silent, his voice trailing off like mist dissipating at dawn.

“Please, don’t stop. You have a beautiful voice,” Glenda said, her tone warm and encouraging, filled with a gentle insistence that somehow softened the abruptness of her earlier motion. There was something maternal in her expression, as if she instinctively understood the courage it had taken Joel to offer even that fragment of himself to us.

I tilted my head, studying Joel more closely. I wouldn’t have described his voice as traditionally beautiful—no, that word belonged to the smooth crooners of polished stages and crystal-clear radio signals. Joel’s voice was weathered, raw. It clung to the notes like fingers on worn bark, shaky but determined. Yet, there was an honesty in it that made something inside me ache. Perhaps, before whatever had damaged his throat, he truly did have a beautiful voice. The thought carried a quiet sadness.

Joel shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes flicking towards Jamie, who gave him a subtle nod of encouragement. That tiny gesture—father to son—seemed to anchor him. With visible reluctance, but surprising resolve, Joel began again, the same few lines returning with familiar, aching cadence. He repeated them as though they were a mantra, a comfort, or perhaps all he remembered. But it was enough.

Then, to my astonishment, Glenda returned holding a violin.

I blinked, utterly thrown. A violin? Where on earth had she managed to find that? It felt almost surreal, like a relic from another time summoned into this strange new world. And yet, somehow, it didn’t feel out of place. Perhaps it was Luke again—his knack for producing the impossible was quickly evolving into myth among us. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he turned up next with a baby grand piano balanced on his shoulder.

Glenda positioned the instrument beneath her chin, fingers settling onto the fingerboard as though reacquainting themselves with an old friend. The first few strokes of the bow were tentative—raw and slightly jarring—drawing out thin, squeaky notes that sliced through the air. But she didn’t falter. She adjusted, recalibrated, and soon, the sounds transformed.

The music that followed was something else entirely. Glenda's melody began to twine itself around Joel’s fragile voice like ivy curling up an old stone wall—delicate, deliberate, and full of quiet strength. Together, they created a sound that was unpolished but deeply moving. The violin’s plaintive tones softened Joel’s rasp, elevating it, weaving a harmony that stirred the air with something close to magic. A strange, fragile beauty pulsed from their duet—unrefined, but real.

I hugged my knees to my chest, eyes flicking from one to the other as the melody wrapped around the campfire. I felt the music in my skin, a shiver skating across my arms. There was something timeless about the moment, like we’d stumbled into a story told generations from now—about the first camp, the first songs, the people who made this place home.

“You know this song?” I asked Glenda softly, almost afraid to disturb the music’s spell.

“Not until now,” she replied, her eyes locked in focus, bow sweeping fluidly as she followed Joel’s pace without hesitation.

Her answer made something inside me swell. This wasn’t a song born of memory—it was one born here, between us, in this wild, dusty place that continued to surprise and bewilder. In that brief harmony, forged from pain and discovery, from silence and song, I saw something more than survival. I saw the beginnings of culture. Of belonging.

I had never learned to play an instrument, nor did I possess any notable singing talent. My contributions to school choirs had always been of the lip-syncing variety, and I’d never so much as touched a violin. Yet, despite my lack of musical aptitude, I could still appreciate the gentle alchemy that unfolded before me. The unpolished harmony between Joel’s voice and Glenda’s strings held a quiet magic—an unassuming beauty born not of perfection, but of sincerity.

Leaning slightly forward, elbows resting on my knees, I focused more intently, drawn in as Joel’s raspy voice delivered the next few lines:

“Let us celebrate our story.
The words we’ve yet to write.
How we all wound up with glory.
In the world we fought to right.”

A chill rippled down my spine, so sudden and complete it left goosebumps in its wake. The lyrics, though simple, struck with a resonance that was almost too perfect. They mirrored the very heartbeat of our journey—the confusion, the courage, the grief, and the relentless hope that propelled us forward through the dust and uncertainty.

Each word carried weight. They weren’t just lyrics; they were a prophecy, a yearning, an affirmation. For a brief, fragile moment, I imagined a time in the future when someone might truly believe that we had fought to right the world. That we had, against all odds, succeeded.

As Joel’s voice faded, the notes of Glenda’s violin continued for a few lingering seconds, each stroke of the bow drawing the moment out like breath held just a little longer. Then, at last, she lowered the instrument. The silence that followed was not empty—it was charged. It felt as though the air itself remembered the song, reluctant to let it go.

“To Joel!” Luke’s voice burst forth suddenly, breaking the spell but replacing it with something equally powerful—a call of recognition, loud and heartfelt.

I snapped out of my reverie and turned towards him, a smile breaking across my face. “To Joel!” I echoed, lifting my voice without hesitation. It felt right to say it aloud, to honour not just his courage to sing, but the unspoken grief and resilience behind that act. Around the circle, others joined in, the chorus swelling with warmth and a kind of impromptu reverence.

Our cheer rose together, dissipating into the vastness beyond the firelight—into the open night sky, the empty plains, the strange and sprawling unknown of Clivilius. For that fleeting moment, we were not fractured individuals thrown together by fate. We were something more. A collective. A fledgling community bound by memory, hope, and song.