Work Text:
You hear the music’s sweet sound before you see him. The notes travel like the sad, wailing wind of the South Pole. You haven’t heard the tsungi horn in years – decades, even – and your eyes are wet before you know it.
You see him now. His hands are wrinkled and spotted (like yours); his face is scarred and worry-lined (unlike yours). You’ve avoided that face for so long that it astonishes you that you still remember every detail.
The song ends and he looks up. There’s a thousand years of silence between you. You take a deep breath.
“Hi.”