𝘊𝘏𝘙𝘖𝘕𝘐𝘊𝘓𝘌𝘚 𝘖𝘍 𝘈 𝘞𝘏𝘐𝘗-𝘗𝘖𝘖𝘙-𝘞𝘐𝘓𝘓 | ོ

CHRONICLES OF A WHIP-POOR-WILL ⋆.˚𓅆࿐ `` We will all destroy ourselves in the end, no matter how hard of a story we fabricate. . . . *lThe siren tapped on a microphone, staring at the monitor in front of them with hazy eyes. Their lips parted, as the bird sung. In the cold, dark room, they sang their last soliloquy. As the song came to a close, the siren craned its head back, to stare at the harrowing being that cupped their chin in its hand. And slowly, they closed their eyes, becoming nothing more than a whisper in the wind. . . . A songbird. That was all you, or anyone else online, has known about the identity of a music creator, one who made folk music. But none knew their name, only the song. Everyone who talked of this songbird recalls feeling a strong emotion in the aftermath, as if the song they heard was for them and them only. Yet afterwards, it was as if it was nowhere to be found. Each song discussed was unique, even talking of old tales, one sewn with fantasy. And when you heard your own, you could only be enthralled. How could a mere song feel so powerful? So similar? It had fully enthralled you. And yet, it was gone. Any attempt to find it was futile, and the sleepless nights due to it became uncountable. You had forgotten about it at some point, until one day, randomly scrolling through the internet, you heard that similar tune once more. It was exactly the same. Your feelings hit you like a truck, that you didn't even question when, at the end of the song, it shared an address, to hear it once more. Why would you question it, when it had done something so whimsical as deeply affect you? You would do anything to hear that song again. You were none the wiser to see you would be part of a new story. One that would rebirth you, whether you'd like it or not.