Unwritten

“Some songs are remembered. Others are born in firelight, in silence, in the spaces where truth hasn’t yet learned to speak.”

The fire's glow pulsed gently in the dark, a living heart at the centre of our gathering. It cast long, flickering shadows that danced across the faces of those nearby, transforming the familiar into the momentarily strange. Jamie’s profile seemed carved in relief, Karen’s eyes flickered like candle flames, Chris’s steady expression softened and wavered with the light. The interplay of illumination and shadow turned each of us into a shifting tapestry—one stitched together by shared silence and the unspoken bond of survival.

Beyond the warmth of the flames, the desert surrendered to pure blackness. It wasn’t merely dim—it was complete, a suffocating absence where not even starlight existed. The horizon had vanished, swallowed by the void, leaving us suspended in a world carved by firelight and uncertainty.

The air carried a subtle sharpness now, the crisp bite of oncoming cold catching me off guard as it slipped beneath the blanket draped across my shoulders. Goosebumps rose along my forearms where the sleeves of my jacket fell short, and I instinctively tucked the fabric tighter around myself. The temperature dropped quickly out here—just another reminder that this land obeyed its own rules, indifferent to ours.

Wrapped in a blanket of near-silence, broken only by the rhythmic crackle of the flames and the soft rustle of someone shifting on a log-seat, I felt my senses sharpen. Every snap of a twig in the fire, every breath drawn by those around me, felt unusually distinct—as if the quiet had its own weight, pressing us into stillness.

And then, from somewhere close by, a sound—a soft, rasping thread of a voice—slipped into the night air.

I stiffened, every muscle tightening instinctively.

"Joel!?" I whispered, my head snapping in his direction, the word barely more than breath. Surprise gripped my chest like a sudden chill. I hadn’t expected to hear him again tonight—had almost forgotten he was still seated at the edge of the circle, wrapped in his quiet, watchful reserve. Since offering to help with the road, he’d melted back into stillness, a ghost among us. Until now.

The sound at first was little more than a hum, raw and tentative, like the fragile flicker of a candle just catching flame. But then it began to shape itself—into syllables, into meaning, into song.

"Let us celebrate our story
The words we've yet to write."

Joel’s voice wasn’t polished or strong, but there was a haunting clarity to it—a purity of intent that made the words feel sacred, as though they carried more than just melody. They carried hope. They carried truth.

A hush fell over the campfire—not forced or expectant, but natural, reverent. I felt it settle over us like mist. No one spoke. No one moved. We listened.

His simple verse stirred something deep within me, something buried yet persistent. It was as though his voice had reached down and tapped the very base of my spine, calling forth an energy I hadn’t realised I’d been holding in reserve. A strange ache bloomed in my chest—not pain, exactly, but a yearning. The kind of ache that comes when something old and familiar calls out across a great distance.

The pull was immediate, magnetic. My fingers twitched with the memory of strings beneath them. I hadn’t played since arriving, hadn’t felt the gut-deep urge to. But now—now it was undeniable. Joel’s voice, rough and trembling and utterly sincere, was asking for accompaniment. Not explicitly, not with words—but in that intangible way music speaks to music.

And I wanted—no, needed—to answer.

To weave something into his offering.

To become, if only for a moment, not just a medic, not just a survivor, but part of a harmony that belonged to all of us.

I couldn’t help myself; I moved, almost without thinking. The decision hadn’t even formed fully in my mind—my body simply acted, compelled by the ache Joel’s song had stirred in me. The log scraped faintly against the dust as I rose, the firelight shifting on the faces around me.

Joel’s voice faltered.

The melody thinned, wavered, then faded into the hush of night. He looked at me, uncertain, the spell broken.

“Please, don’t stop. You have a beautiful voice,” I said quickly, the words tumbling out, raw and unguarded. I didn’t mean to sound desperate, but I could feel it—this need to keep the music alive, to become a part of it. My fingers were already tingling with the memory of strings beneath them, the weight of the bow, the subtle resistance of rosin on gut.

Joel offered only a small nod in return—barely a movement, yet more powerful than a speech. There was something deeply vulnerable in the way he accepted the moment, as if he understood what it meant to both of us.

He began to hum again, gently reweaving the melody, letting it unfurl once more into the darkness.

I turned, heart thudding with anticipation, and made for the tent.

“Shit,” I breathed under my breath as I stepped away from the fire’s reach. The cold air was immediate, biting, and the darkness beyond the fireline felt oppressive, as though the night itself were something with weight and intention.

The tent flap whispered shut behind me with a soft swish, severing the last golden threads of the fire’s glow. Within, the world became pure shadow.

I froze. No bearings, no shapes. Just black.

I dropped instinctively to my hands and knees, palms pressing into the uneven fabric of the tent floor. It was cool beneath me, gritty in places, faintly smelling of dust, nylon, and my own sweat. My breath was shallow—controlled, measured—as I inched forward.

Everything felt strangely distorted. The tent I’d been living in, my temporary sanctuary, now felt unfamiliar. Each movement was a negotiation between memory and uncertainty.

My fingers grazed a hard edge—smooth, reassuring.

The violin case.

Relief flushed through me in a quiet wave. I wrapped my fingers around the handle with care, almost reverently. As I shifted to make my way out, urgency overtook caution. I moved faster.

Too fast.

My hip slammed into something solid.

“Ah—damn it!” I hissed, clutching my side as pain flared up and spread in a hot pulse. I knelt there for a moment, one hand still gripping the violin case, the other pressed against the sore spot, as though my palm could somehow undo the ache.

I hadn’t seen—or sensed—whatever it was. A box, maybe. Or one of Jamie’s abandoned storage tubs. Either way, it hadn’t been there earlier. I was sure of it.

“We really need more light,” I muttered, the words muffled by the darkness. Not just to spare bruised hips, but for everything. The sheer absurdity of fumbling around for a violin in a tent while someone sang outside felt almost surreal. And yet, somehow… it was the most real thing I’d done all day.

Cradling the case to my chest, I stood up slowly, wincing, and began to make my way back, guided now by the distant hum of Joel’s song—soft, steady, and waiting for me.

I emerged back into the night, blinking as the warm light of the fire embraced me once again. The contrast to the tent’s black interior was stark—like stepping from a void into a world gently painted in gold and amber. I exhaled slowly, the tension I hadn’t realised I’d been carrying ebbing from my shoulders as the familiar sounds and scents of the camp rewrapped themselves around me.

A small, triumphant smile tugged at my lips. I held the violin case close, as though I’d retrieved a missing piece of myself.

Settling once more onto my log-seat, I drew the instrument from its case with care. My fingers moved automatically, reverently—habits formed over years of practice returning like an old friend. The varnished wood glowed in the firelight, and for a moment I simply sat there, cradling it, feeling its weight, its potential.

The bow in my right hand hovered, poised and alert like the breath before a first word. I tilted my head, listening—really listening—to the quiet persistence of Joel’s humming, the simple, repetitive thread of melody he had laid across the evening like a soft blanket. I matched his pitch in my mind, feeling for the spaces he left open.

The first few notes that spilled from my violin were cautious—thin, a little strained. A squeaky overture that almost apologised for disturbing the quiet spell. I winced slightly at the first bow stroke, but pressed on, adjusting, recalibrating.

Soon, my fingers remembered the dance.

With each breath of movement, each familiar glide of bow against string, the violin began to sing—no longer hesitant, but assured. The notes found their footing, intertwining with Joel’s melody like vines around a trellis. They didn’t mimic him, nor overpower, but responded—call and reply, push and pull. His hum wove a path; my violin traced it, expanded it, carried it forward.

The sound wrapped around the fire like a balm. Soft gasps of wind shifted the flames, causing light to flicker across faces turned inward. I caught Jamie’s foot tapping ever so slightly, and Karen’s shoulders beginning to sway. Even Duke had settled, head resting on crossed paws, ears twitching in rhythm.

The ache in my hip, the exhaustion, the dust, the frustrations—all of it blurred, then dissolved. I let it go, let the music draw me away from the grit of reality and into something purer.

This wasn’t just playing.

It was speaking.

A conversation without words—a communion of feeling. Each note I played echoed with resilience, and each pause left room for memory, for mourning, for hope. It was as if the violin itself understood the weight we carried, and sought to carry some of it for us, just for a little while.

Karen’s voice floated to me, soft and lilting, like a leaf caught in the breeze. “You know this song?” she asked. Her head was tilted, eyes reflecting the fire’s glow, her body gently caught in the rhythm we’d built.

“Not until now,” I replied, without looking away from the strings. My fingers moved instinctively, unthinking—each placement a choice and a release. The music had transcended thought, become an extension of breath and intention.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Luke moving between us with a tray of drinks. There was a lightness to his gait, a quiet joy in his step that hadn’t been there earlier. His rhythm matched ours, as though even the practicalities of hydration had fallen under the spell of the music. The cups on his tray clinked softly, almost in time, and I felt a strange swell of affection for all of it—for the moment, the people, the possibility.

Joel’s voice carried gently on the night air, that same refrain repeated like a heartbeat—steady, unwavering, quietly defiant. His tone was unpolished, even fragile at times, but it was precisely that fragility that made it beautiful. It was human. Raw. True.

"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.”

Each repetition seemed to settle deeper into the fabric of the evening, like a needle stitching us together. Line by line, he wove a spell that turned the dust and shadow of our encampment into something more—something sacred. A fragile unity took shape around the firelight, coalescing from the simple act of being seen, heard, included.

It wasn’t the sort of moment you could plan. It grew organically, shaped by quiet resilience, and wrapped in the humble conviction that we might be more than what this place demanded of us.

As Joel's final words faded into the darkness, a stillness followed—dense, meaningful. I kept the bow moving, drawing the final stanza out with tenderness, letting the last notes stretch like a breath held too long. I didn’t want to rush them. This was no ordinary ending; it was a salute. A bow to the endurance that bound us, and to the delicate thread of hope that refused to fray, no matter how harsh the winds.

When at last I let the violin fall still, I turned to Joel.

He hadn’t moved much—still seated, still quiet—but something in his posture had changed. A quiet dignity had taken root there, as if he’d claimed something tonight and would never quite give it back.

“Your music… it’s more than just words or notes. It’s a spark,” I said. My voice felt small compared to the moment, but I meant every syllable. I wanted him to know what he’d done for us—what he’d done for me. He’d taken the jagged fragments of our experience and shaped them into something coherent, something beautiful. And without fanfare, he had offered it up to the night.

"To Joel!" Luke’s voice rang out, clear and joyful, cutting clean through the hush like a bell. He stood with his glass raised, and in that instant he seemed to tower with pride, the flames catching in the curve of his grin. His toast was more than words—it was permission. An invitation to feel joy, to celebrate even here, even now.

Voices lifted in unison, echoing the name, “To Joel!” The sound rose like a wave and rolled outward into the night, stirring the very air, brushing against the edges of the unknown that loomed beyond the reach of firelight.

It was more than applause. It was belonging.

The mood shifted—lightened, warmed—and laughter began to return in quiet ripples, like dawn seeping into the edges of a long night. The fire popped as if in applause, casting sparks that twirled like stars.

And yet, as the others leaned back into conversation and cups were lifted in continued celebration, I found my gaze drifting once more to Joel.

He remained still. Not uncomfortable, not withdrawn—just contemplative. As if the song had taken more from him than it had given, or perhaps as if he was still somewhere within it, the rest of us only hearing the echo.

I watched him for a long moment, that young man who had come back to life one verse at a time, and wondered just how deep his well went. What other verses lay hidden inside him. What stories he’d brought from the world before.

The music had ended, but the connection lingered.

From my vantage point across the campfire, I watched the play of light and shadow ripple across Joel’s face—an ever-shifting mosaic cast by the flames. The flickering glow highlighted the stillness in his features, as if he were caught between this world and another, his gaze distant, unreadable. His earlier lyrics still lingered in the air like smoke, their echoes curling in the corners of my mind.

I found myself wondering—where had they come from?

Was this some innate talent, a gift carried quietly through whatever had befallen him before we met? Or was it something more unsettling? Something… other?

The thought crept in uninvited: what if Clivilius itself, this strange new world we had been pulled into—relentless in its patterns, haunting in its silences—was speaking through Joel? The idea struck me with a chill that settled at the nape of my neck. I didn’t like where it led. A place where agency and autonomy blurred. Where song became prophecy, or warning.

I looked again at the scar running across his throat. A deep, clean line—too precise to be accidental, too grotesque to be ignored. The sight of it never failed to unsettle me. It wasn’t just the violence of it. It was the implication. That someone had once tried to silence him, permanently. And yet, here he was—singing. Not just surviving, but giving something to us. Something meaningful.

A knot of unease tightened in my stomach.

My thoughts drifted then to Karen. Her earlier comments had stirred up more than she probably realised—mentions of breeding facilities and vague, unsettling allusions to things left unspoken. She had delivered them with a coolness that hinted at knowledge hard-won, perhaps too hard to share all at once.

My father had never mentioned any of this. Not in his stories, not in the cryptic fragments he left behind. But perhaps that was the point. Perhaps he had only told the parts I was ready to hear. Or perhaps he had been silenced too.

The silence of Clivilius was rarely empty—it hummed with omissions.

Joel's song—those four lines—now rang with a new depth:

Let us celebrate our story
The words we've yet to write.

Not nostalgia. Not comfort. But a summons. A dare. To face the stories still untold. The things we hadn’t dared to voice. The truths, buried and waiting.

A quiet fire ignited in my chest, different to the one that warmed my hands. His song had reached something buried deep within me. A clarity. A resolve.

I would not let these mysteries remain unanswered. I would not rest with half-truths and glancing remarks. My father’s silence. Karen’s cryptic warnings. Joel’s haunting presence.

They were all threads.

And I would follow them.

The conversation around the fire resumed in low tones, laughter bubbling up here and there, the group settling into a rhythm of comfort after the intensity of the song. But I remained still, the bow of my violin resting now across my lap, my hands quiet but my thoughts burning.

In this moment—amid the murmurs, the scent of woodsmoke, the gentle weight of Lois resting her chin on my boot—I felt something shift. Something settle.

I would learn. I would understand. I would prepare.

Because our stories were unwritten.

And I refused to let anyone else write mine for me.