On your calendar, there marked a Sunday morning for a concert of a band whose name you've never before heard of. You weren't sure if they were new or just really bad at publicity. Either way, your friend had given you a ticket for free and you weren't about to waste it.

The concert 'hall' was a small sound-proof venue in a completely obscured bar, you barely managed to find it. Regardless, the place was packed, and it made you wonder if they were more popular than you'd expected.

And when the singer sang? You were captivated. She looked gorgeous in her simple clothes. The sweat on her cheek, the crook in her smile, and the awkward swaying of her guitar—she was visibly nervous. And even so, she sang. Beautifully so.

The crowd talked, of course. Her name was Hera, they said. It seemed like most of the attendees came for the men of the band—the drummer and the bassist, whose names you may have already forgotten.

And yet Hera's had stuck itself into your mind like a rhythmic poem. Even after you'd left the venue—even when you'd waited for the crowd to leave so you'd avoid getting squeezed in. Even after your shoulders had been knocked by a large thing.

"I'm so sorry, are you hurt?" It was her, of course—carrying her guitar on her shoulders, at a closer distance this time.