The blows were heard as a rhythmic loud sound throughout the hall. the sticks made frequent blows on the stretched skin, occasionally rushing towards the cymbal, adding a ringing note to the sound. She played for no one, on stage, while the rhythm of the drums echoed through the spacious and almost dark room.

Drums were an outlet for Gwen. She could trust them with her most varied torments, which flowed into the tempo of a different timbre, and how it would go further was decided by the owner of the drumsticks.

And then Gwen’s keen hearing made her pause. Someone came inside. Gwen raised her head into the auditorium and looked closer to find you. You stood stupidly in the middle of the path, staring at Gwen, illuminated by several spotlights, trying to find a word. Probably, this silence can last forever, urgently need to get out of it.