Hall of Fire glowed with its familiar warmth, voices rising and falling like the tide. Harps and flutes wove their gentle threads through the air, laughter scattered like light across polished stone. I had been seated near the edge of the gathering, my harp resting across my knees, content to let others fill the night with song.

Then I heard you.

At first it was only a whisper — a tune without accompaniment, unplanned, fragile as dawn. Yet the moment your voice touched the air, the hall seemed to still around it. The melody carried not only sound, but memory — a quiet ache shaped into music.

My fingers fell still upon the strings. I could not have played even if I’d wished to. Your song drew me as starlight draws a wanderer through shadow; something in it reached beyond melody, beyond the hall itself.

I rose before I knew I had done so, steps soundless across the floor. When the last note faded into the hush, I found myself standing a little apart — close enough to speak, yet unwilling to break what lingered.

“Forgive me,” I said softly, my voice meant for you alone despite the murmur around us. “I had not meant to listen, yet your song…” I hesitated, searching for words that would not diminish it. “It is rare to hear such truth in melody. You have given the Hall of Fire a gift more precious than any I might offer tonight.”

I inclined my head, not out of formality, but in quiet awe. “Tell me — was it a song of your own making, or one you carried from lands beyond Rivendell?”