Making my way around the small circle of Clivilians, the assortment of Indian dishes in my hands emitted an intoxicating aroma that mingled with the smoky air. The campfire, our beacon of warmth and camaraderie, crackled and popped energetically as Kain tossed another log onto the flames. Sparks danced upwards, like tiny, fleeting stars born from the fire's embrace, only to vanish into the cool evening air.

I watched as Paul, with an instinctive jerk, dodged a wayward plume of smoke. His reaction, swift and practiced, was a small dance with nature's whims. "Sorry," Kain's voice broke through the crackling and hissing of the fire, his tone a mix of amusement and a hint of apology. "Didn't mean to do that."

"All good," Paul's response was casual, almost indifferent, as if the dance with the smoke was just another routine in our unpredictable lives. He waved his hand, dispersing the invading smoke, his eyes never leaving the fire.

"Butter chicken for you?" I offered, my voice steady, as I presented Paul with a plastic container. It was filled to the brim, a vibrant mosaic of tender chicken pieces drenched in a creamy, spiced sauce, nestled atop a bed of fluffy rice. The dish was a small token of normality, a reminder of a world beyond their current confines, and I knew it was a favourite of his.

My afternoon's efforts, the procurement of these savoury, comforting meals, filled me with a quiet satisfaction. These small victories, these moments of providing not just sustenance but also a taste of the familiar, were my silent rebellion against the disorder that was becoming all too familiar.

The efficiency of my day's endeavours, from securing a sizeable haul of wood from a trailer parked like a forgotten giant across from the Showgrounds, to orchestrating the timely collection of our Indian feast, was a testament to the small yet significant ways I could contribute to our survival. The pride in my chest swelled, not just from the logistical success, but from the knowledge that each carefully executed task, each meal shared around this flickering campfire, was a thread weaving us tighter together, a silent vow to endure, to persist.

And there, in the orange glow of the fire, amidst the symphony of crackles, hisses, and low murmurs of my companions, a thought flickered in my mind, as persistent as the flames before me: If I keep this up, if I continue to navigate this precarious dance of supply and survival, perhaps I would be able to keep at least another dozen people fed and alive easily.

"Yeah, thanks," Paul's words snapped me back to the present, slicing through my introspection like a knife through butter. His gratitude, simple yet sincere, served as a gentle reminder of the here and now.

I shifted my focus to Karen, the warmth from the fire battling the evening's chill. "Chicken tikka?" I ventured, offering up the container like a peace offering in this unpredictable world. My question was more than just an offer of food; it was a test of my intuition, a small gamble in the grand game of understanding those around me.

"How did you know?" Karen exclaimed, her voice a mixture of surprise and delight. The way her eyes lit up, reflecting the fire's glow, told me more than words ever could.

"Lucky guess," I quipped, the corners of my mouth turning up into a cheeky grin. But beneath that playful exterior, a part of me was analysing, always trying to piece together the puzzle of our little community.

My attention then drifted to Chris, a somewhat enigmatic figure to me. Our interactions had been sparse, our exchanges brief and surface-level. Yet, there I stood, trying to bridge the gap with a simple offering. "And for you?" I asked, my voice laced with curiosity.

Karen was quick to respond for him, "He'll eat anything."

I sent Chris a raised eyebrow, encouraging him to speak for himself.

I glanced at Chris, raising an eyebrow, a silent invitation for him to assert his own choice. His smile, though polite, didn't quite reach his eyes, hinting at an underlying resignation or perhaps a deeper story untold. "Anything is fine," he replied, his tone carrying a hint of surrender, as if he were used to adapting, to accepting whatever life—or, in this case, dinner—threw his way.

"Sure," I responded, handing over the food but mentally bookmarking this interaction. Chris's acquiescence, Karen's quick interjection—it was all part of the intricate dance of personalities and relationships unfolding around the campfire. In this world I was piecing together, every action, every choice, was a thread in the larger tapestry of collective survival.

"Lois, sit!" Glenda's voice, firm yet not unkind, cut through the evening air, her command aimed at the exuberant retriever. The dog, with its tail wagging like a flag in the breeze, seemed to consider me its new best friend, following me closely, a bit too closely, as if convinced that I was the bearer of endless treats.

I couldn't help but smile, despite the slight inconvenience. "Look, Lois, even Duke has settled," Jamie chimed in, his tone playful yet pointed, gesturing towards Duke, who lay contentedly between his and Joel's feet, the picture of canine serenity—or exhaustion.

Turning my attention back to the humans, I extended the container towards Jamie. "And butter chicken for you," I announced, hoping the familiar favourite would bring a semblance of comfort.

"Thanks," Jamie's response was brief, his attention momentarily divided between the food and the dogs.

As I moved to continue my rounds, Jamie's voice halted me. "Hey, what about Joel?" he inquired, his tone a mixture of surprise and mild accusation. I had bypassed the young man, an action that now gnawed at me.

"I'm sorry," I admitted, feeling a twinge of guilt lace my words. "I didn't realise he could eat." My ignorance, innocent as it was, felt like a small yet significant blunder in the delicate ecosystem of our group dynamics.

Jamie's retort was swift, laced with a frustration that was perhaps more about their situation than my forgetfulness. "Of course, he can fucking eat!"

"What do you want?" I inquired, redirecting my steps towards Joel, who seemed somewhat detached from the ongoing banter and food distribution. His presence was quieter, more subdued compared to the others, and his response was no different—a simple, noncommittal shrug.

"Beef madras okay?" I probed further, trying to gauge his preference while holding up the container.

"Sure," Joel's reply was hoarse, almost as if each word was an effort, yet his acceptance of the offering was a small bridge, a connection however fleeting.

I smiled, trying to infuse a bit of warmth into the moment, and handed him the container.

Turning to Glenda, I was met with her admission, "I don't really like anything too spicy." Her voice carried a hint of apology, as if her culinary preference was an inconvenience, which, in our current situation, was a luxury we could barely afford.

"Looks like butter chicken it is for you, too," I responded, relieved that I had opted for a variety of dishes, including the milder, universally liked butter chicken. "Good thing that is what I got the most of."

Kain chimed in then, his voice carrying through the air, "You can't really go wrong with a good butter chicken."

"You can have the last one then," I declared, handing over the final container of butter chicken to Kain.

"I guess I'm having the vindaloo," I muttered under my breath, a half-hearted attempt at humour to myself as I settled onto my makeshift seat, a log that wobbled a little too much for my liking. The container in my hand felt like a small challenge, its contents promising a burst of flavours and an equally potent aftermath.

It wasn't that I had any aversion to vindaloo; quite the contrary, I relished the complexity and the fiery kick of well-spiced food. My concern was more practical. Tomorrow, like every day, was filled with tasks, responsibilities that couldn't be put on hold for frequent, urgent dashes to the bathroom. The thought of my stomach in tumultuous debate with the vindaloo while I tried to focus on essential missions was less than appealing.

As I tentatively scooped up a bite, letting the rich, spicy aroma tickle my nostrils, the sounds around me shifted. The animated conversations and occasional laughter began to fade, replaced by the symphony of contented chewing and the crackling of the fire. I allowed myself a small smile, the corners of my mouth lifting in a private moment of satisfaction.

Observing the handful of Clivilians, I noted the harmony that had started to weave its way through the group. These settlers, each with their unique background, skills, and quirks, were starting to find common ground, bonding over shared meals and the collective endeavour to forge a life here. The campfire was more than just a source of warmth and light, it would undoubtedly become a nucleus of our community, a place where differences dwindled and camaraderie blossomed.

Paul's throat-clearing resonated through the camp, a deliberate signal that he had something of importance to address. I found myself settling deeper into my log seat, my vindaloo momentarily forgotten as I shifted my focus to the unfolding discussion. My role was often more observational, a trait that allowed me to gauge the pulse of our little society, and Paul's announcement was a ripple in our campfire gathering.

"I need everyone to regularly check in at the Drop Zone to see whether Luke has brought any of your belongings. Or perhaps there might be something there that you find you need." His voice carried a tone of necessity, an unspoken reminder of our reliance on each other and the resources I provided.

Chris's response was immediate and supportive, "That sounds reasonable enough." His voice was steady, reflecting a practical acceptance of the new protocol, an acknowledgment of their shared predicament and the need for collective effort.

However, Karen's reaction was starkly different, her incredulity palpable. "Reasonable?" she echoed, her eyes narrowing as she turned to her husband. "It's a long way to walk just to check. I'm too busy to wander over to simply… check." Her words, tinged with frustration, highlighted the ongoing challenge of balancing individual priorities with communal needs.

Jamie's alignment with Karen's stance came swiftly, "I'm with Karen on this one. Too busy."

"Busy!" Paul repeated, his disbelief evident. "All you've done is sit in the tent for the past two days!" The accusation hung in the air, a challenge to Jamie's contribution to their collective survival.

"Fuck off, Paul!" Jamie’s anger was raw, a sharp contrast to the earlier conviviality. The chicken, once a mere part of his meal, became an unintended casualty of the dispute, falling from his fork to his lap, a tangible symbol of the conversation's descent from civility.

As I watched the piece of chicken meet its undignified end, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of concern. The altercation was a vivid reminder of the underlying tensions that simmered beneath the surface of our community. In this new world, where the balance between individual needs and group survival was constantly negotiated, such clashes were perhaps inevitable. Yet, they also underscored the fragility of our situation, the need for understanding and compromise, and the ever-present challenge of maintaining unity in the face of adversity.

Breaking my silence to throw my two cents in before things escalated too far, I addressed my brother with a blend of sincerity and a hint of challenge in my tone. "Didn't you want to be responsible for managing the Drop Zone anyway?" My question was aimed not just at quelling the rising tension but also at reminding him of his earlier enthusiasm for the role.

"I'm happy to wander over. It'll be a nice break and good to see what's there," Chris said, his voice carrying a lightness that contrasted the heavier mood. His swift return to his meal seemed almost strategic, a physical withdrawal from the debate to avoid further confrontation.

Glenda's support for Paul came next, her affirmation gentle yet firm. "You make a good Drop Zone manager, Paul," she stated, her words a blend of encouragement and a subtle reminder of the community's reliance on each individual's contributions.

Kain's muttered addition, "Well, he is shit at building things," was a jarring note in the otherwise conciliatory exchange. It was a moment of raw honesty, perhaps, but its bluntness felt out of place against the backdrop of the efforts to maintain harmony.

Glenda's response to Kain's barb was swift and diplomatic, her gaze sharp as she addressed the undercurrent of his comment. "I think our settlement has more chance of thriving if we each focus on our own strengths," she suggested, her eyes briefly meeting Kain's before he retreated to the safety of his meal. Her words were a gentle reprimand, an appeal to recognise and respect the diversity of skills within our group.

Glenda's suggestion seemed to resonate with Paul, steering the conversation towards a constructive resolution. "With Luke bringing supplies through so quickly now, perhaps it would be best if the Drop Zone had a dedicated Manager."

"Fine. I'll be responsible for notifying people when things arrive for them and for keeping the Drop Zone in some sort of order," Paul declared, a note of reluctant acceptance in his voice. His commitment, though not brimming with enthusiasm, was a crucial step towards solidifying their collective efforts.

Internally, I breathed a sigh of relief. I'm glad that sorted itself out, I thought. I need Paul. I can't have him shirking his responsibilities. If only I knew how…

Karen's "Marvellous" came as a light, approving touch to the agreement, the verbal nod to the sense of progress being made pulling me from my wandering thoughts of Paul.

"But… if I am going to be going back and forth so often, we need to do something about this bloody dust! We need to build a road," he asserted, pointing out a practical issue.

"That sounds fair enough," agreed Glenda.

"I can help with that," Chris said, his hand shooting up with a mix of earnestness and eagerness that was both endearing and indicative of his commitment to the collective well-being.

Kain's tentative agreement, "Yeah, I guess we could all pitch in," accompanied by his searching gaze, suggested a willingness to contribute, albeit with a hint of reservation. His glance around the group seemed to seek a consensus, a shared commitment to the task.

Joel's raspy "I'll help too" added another voice to the chorus of cooperation, a subtle yet significant indication of his willingness to be part of the communal endeavours.

As the discussion wound down, I observed the group, noting the shift in dynamics. The initial tension had given way to a collaborative spirit, a collective readiness to tackle the challenges ahead. Yet, the ease with which they transitioned back to their own conversations, almost too quickly forgetting the friction that had preceded, left me pondering the fragility and fluidity of our interactions. In this new world we were building, each conversation, each decision, was a step towards something greater—a purpose that I needed to ensure that the Clivilians would never forget.

"I'll hold the bag open for you," Karen said, her voice breaking the silence. She took the black garbage bag from my hands, her fingers brushing mine momentarily, sending an unexpected jolt of warmth through my cold skin. She stretched it open with a practiced ease, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet of the evening.

As I picked up the discarded food containers, their remnants of our earlier meal still clinging to them, I couldn't help but let my mind wander back to the conversations we used to have. "You remember the dreams I told you about?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, as if I was afraid to shatter the fragile veneer of normality we had constructed.

Karen chuckled, a sound that seemed too loud in the stillness, as she held the bag steady. "How could I forget?" she said, her laughter not reaching her eyes. "Jane and I used to make fun of you for them." Her words, casual and offhand, struck me like a physical blow. I felt a tightness in my chest, a mixture of embarrassment and a lingering sense of betrayal.

"You did?" My voice cracked slightly, betraying my shaken composure. I dropped the last container into the bag, the sound echoing in my ears. I felt exposed, vulnerable, as if she had peeled back layers I had carefully built up over the years.

"Well," Karen began, her tone shifting, perhaps sensing my discomfort. "You were always so serious about them. How could we not find it amusing?" Her attempt at justification did little to soothe the sting of her words. It was as if the memories of those dreams, once vivid and all-consuming, were now being trivialised, reduced to mere sources of amusement.

"I guess I shouldn't really be surprised." The words left my mouth before I could stop them, a quiet surrender to the realisation that perhaps my deepest thoughts and fears had always been just a joke to others. I tied the top of the bag, my movements slow and deliberate, as if through this simple act I could somehow regain control, piece back together the fragments of my dignity.

As I stood there, the weight of the bag in my hands mirroring the heaviness in my heart, I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of isolation. It was a reminder that even among friends, I was alone with my thoughts, my dreams, and my fears. The laughter and camaraderie of the past seemed like a distant echo, overshadowed by the newfound understanding of my solitude in their company.

"Oh, have you heard the news?" Karen's voice sliced through the still air, laden with a curiosity-piquing excitement that was almost palpable.

"What news?" I asked, my brow furrowing slightly. The ambiguity of her statement left a trail of questions in my mind, sparking a flicker of curiosity amid the mundanity of our current task.

"Follow me," she said with a sense of urgency, her hands releasing the black garbage bag as if it suddenly became irrelevant. She turned on her heel, gesturing for me to follow her lead. Her sudden shift in focus was contagious, pulling me away from the task at hand and into a wave of intrigue.

As we walked, I squinted into the horizon, the sun's waning glow casting long shadows across the ground, signalling the impending arrival of dusk. The mountains in the distance stood like silent guardians, their peaks touching the soft underbelly of the twilight sky.

"We didn't know what else to do with them, so we've just left them there for now," Karen said over her shoulder, her pace quickening as if trying to outrun the encroaching night. Her words were cryptic, adding layers to the mystery that unfolded with each step we took.

"Left what where?" I asked, my strides lengthening in an effort to keep pace with her. The curiosity that initially piqued my interest now morphed into a mild concern, the unknowns stacking up like pieces in a puzzle waiting to be solved.

"The coriander plants," she finally revealed, though this piece of information did more to confuse than to clarify. My mind raced, trying to piece together the relevance of coriander plants in the grand scheme of our current realities.

"Huh?" The sound escaped me almost involuntarily, a verbal manifestation of my bewilderment. I tried to recall any instance where coriander plants had featured in our plans or discussions. I'm pretty sure I haven't brought any through the Portal, I thought to myself, the puzzle pieces in my mind refusing to fit together, leaving me adrift in a sea of unanswered questions as we continued our brisk walk towards the unknown.

Karen stopped abruptly on the far side of the newly pitched tent, her movements so sudden that I almost collided with her. "Coriander plants," she repeated with a sense of revelation, pointing at the small, unassuming seedlings that clustered near the tent's canvas wall. Their delicate green leaves fluttered slightly in the gentle breeze

"How—" I began, my voice laced with incredulity. The sight was as bewildering as it was unexpected. My words faltered, trailing off into the cool air as I watched Karen's next actions with rapt attention.

She reached into her pocket with a deliberate motion, her hand emerging with a small ziplock bag. From it, she extracted a single coriander seed, small and unremarkable yet charged with potential. With a grace born of certainty, she pressed the seed into the soil beside the other seedlings, her movements precise and intentional.

Within two minutes, a near-miraculous transformation unfolded before my eyes. The coriander seed cracked open as if responding to some silent, primal command, its tiny roots venturing into the welcoming embrace of the earth. Bright green leaves unfurled from the delicate stem, reaching upwards with a vigour that seemed impossible given the seed's recent dormancy.

"Impressive," I muttered, the word barely a whisper as I struggled to reconcile the scene before me with the laws of nature as I knew them. Vivid flashes of grand landscapes, where flora defied time and space to burgeon and thrive, danced through my mind. The news of rapid growth, while astounding, stirred a mix of emotions within me—wonder, certainly, but also an undercurrent of unease. Such rapid growth was unnatural, and it hinted at forces and consequences beyond our current understanding.

"But there's a big problem," Karen's voice cut through my thoughts, her tone laden with a seriousness that immediately drew my attention away from the miraculous growth of the coriander.

I crouched down beside the fledgling plants, my fingers brushing gently across the tender, green leaves, feeling their delicate texture. "What's that?" I inquired, my curiosity piqued yet wary of the impending issue she was about to disclose.

"There's too much dust! We need to find a way to clear it." Her words carried a weight of urgency, her gaze fixed on the surrounding ground as if to illustrate the magnitude of the predicament.

Looking up at Karen, I felt a furrow of concern etch itself across my brow. The dust issue was just another on a growing list of challenges in this new environment. I don't have time to solve every problem, I thought, a flicker of frustration passing through me as my eyes involuntarily rolled, betraying my internal struggle to remain composed.

"Any ideas?" I asked, striving to inject a note of efficiency into my voice, aiming to dispel the cloud of concern that seemed to overshadow Karen's features.

"I've tried moving some with a shovel, but in most places that I've checked, it's at least a few feet deep." Her report painted a grim picture, one where manual labour would hardly make a dent in the scale of the problem.

"Hmm." My mind raced, sifting through possible solutions, the severity of the situation dawning on me. The dust wasn't just a minor inconvenience; it was a barrier to the growth and sustainability of our fledgling agricultural efforts.

"I think a bit of heavy machinery would be best." Karen's suggestion broke through my contemplations, her idea resonating with the clarity of a feasible solution.

My eyes lit up at the suggestion. Perfect solution! It was a straightforward yet effective approach, one that could address the issue at scale. "Leave it with me. I'll sort it," I declared, a surge of determination infusing my words. The prospect of employing heavy machinery not only presented a way to overcome the immediate challenge but also imbued me with a sense of agency, a reminder that, despite the unpredictability of our environment, we were not entirely at its mercy.

"And you know, I was thinking, now that we can grow plants quicker, that we can put a few fences up over there by the river for my ducks. They'd absolutely love it down there with a few reeds and a little duck house." Karen's voice was filled with enthusiasm, painting a vivid picture of her idyllic vision for the future.

I nodded silently, feeling the weight of her expectations settle on my shoulders. My eyes bulged slightly as I envisioned the amount of work required to cater to Karen’s expanding scene.

"And my chickens will need to be relocated," Karen continued, her stream of thoughts flowing unabated. "Don't forget their henhouse." Her words tumbled out in a rush, each new idea piling atop the last, like bricks in a wall that was quickly becoming too high to scale.

"Karen, slow down," I interjected, my voice a calm counterpoint to her fervour, as I returned my gaze to the small coriander seedlings. Their rapid growth, which should have been a triumph, now felt like a harbinger of the escalating demands of our burgeoning settlement.

"Luke, I'm serious. You need to look after my animals until I am ready for you to bring them all here, to me." Her tone was insistent, brooking no argument, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that felt almost tangible.

Unwillingly, my eyes met hers, finding a determination there that I knew could not be easily swayed. "All of them. I don't want any of them suffering or dying before then," she added, her concern for her animals clear and unwavering.

I felt a knot form in my stomach, the pressure mounting as the scope of my responsibilities expanded before my eyes. How the hell am I going to find the time to care for her little farm animals? The question echoed in my mind, a relentless drumbeat of anxiety. The heat from Karen's intense stare bore down on me, so fierce that it felt as though my clothes might spontaneously combust.

"I promise," I heard myself say, the words slipping out almost against my will. The commitment hung in the air between us, a solemn vow that I was now bound to uphold. The task ahead seemed daunting, a complex jigsaw of time management and resource allocation, all while ensuring the well-being of Karen's cherished animals. My mind raced with plans and contingencies, even as part of me wondered how I would manage to keep this promise amidst the myriad challenges I already faced.

Seated back on my log at the campfire, I could feel the day's warmth retreat as swiftly as the sun vanished behind the horizon, leaving us in a world of creeping shadows and a chill that nipped eagerly at my skin. The campfire, now the heart of our little community, cast a warm, dancing light that seemed to fight back against the encroaching darkness. Around me, the chatter had grown louder, more animated, as if the night emboldened my companions to share their stories and laughter more freely.

Then, almost imperceptibly at first, the atmosphere began to shift. A humming, raw and raspy, yet imbued with a strange, compelling beauty, cut through the din, commanding attention without demanding it. The sound seemed to ride the gentle breeze, weaving through the camp, drawing us in, inviting us to pause and listen.

The humming found its voice, transforming into words that floated across the campfire's warm glow:

"Let us celebrate our story

The words we’ve yet to write."

I glanced across the campfire, my eyes drawn to the source of this unexpected serenade. Joel sat there, his usual stoic demeanour softened in the firelight. His gaze was transfixed on the flames that danced before him, as if they were the muse to his melody. From his lips flowed the song, a tune that felt both ancient and new, imbued with a sense of hope and reflection.

The melody struck a chord within me, stirring something deep and unspoken. It was as if Joel, often so guarded and reserved, was revealing a hidden part of himself, sharing his inner light through the universal language of music. His voice, unexpectedly melodic, wove around the crackling of the fire and the swirls of the dust, creating a moment of connection, of shared human experience.

"Please, don't stop. You have a beautiful voice," Glenda urged Joel, her words cutting through the momentary silence that fell over the camp like a soft blanket. Her sudden rise to her feet had startled Joel, silencing him mid-note, his melody hanging unfinished in the air.

Joel, with a shy nod, acquiesced to Glenda's request, his voice finding the melody once again, starting from the beginning. The tune, simple yet haunting, filled the campsite anew.

I watched, a sense of contentment washing over me, as Glenda disappeared into her tent, only to emerge moments later with a violin cradled in her arms. The instrument, a gift from Pierre, seemed almost alive in her hands, an extension of her being. I couldn't help but smile, thinking of Pierre's wisdom in recognising the latent symphony waiting to burst forth from Glenda's skilled fingers.

At first, the violin's voice was tentative, emitting a few awkward, squeaky notes as if clearing its throat before speaking. But then, with a graceful fluidity born of years of practice, Glenda found her stride, and the violin sang. The notes soared and dipped, intertwining with Joel's voice in an impromptu duet that felt as natural as the smoke rising from the flames.

"You know this song?" Karen's voice, tinged with curiosity and wonder, broke the spell momentarily.

"Not until now," Glenda responded, her focus unbroken, her bow dancing across the strings without missing a beat. Her reply spoke volumes of her talent, her ability to meld her play seamlessly with Joel's tune as if the two had been intertwined from the start.

This is amazing! The thought reverberated through my mind as I absorbed the impromptu concert unfolding before me. I need to bring them some more instruments through the Portal. The idea sparked a flicker of excitement within me. I knew Paul played the piano, his talent yet another hidden gem among us. I wonder if any of the others are musical… My thoughts wandered to the untapped potential surrounding me, pondering who else might reveal a hidden musical prowess if given the chance.

As I mused on these possibilities, I moved around the circle formed by my companions, ensuring that each hand was clasped around a warm mug or a cool glass, a small but comforting gesture in the shared camaraderie of the night. The drinks, varying from steaming tea to chilled beer, seemed to mirror the diversity of our small community, each person's choice reflecting a snippet of their personality.

My ears tuned in to Joel's song, the melody simple yet hauntingly beautiful as it wove through the crackling fire and the soft murmur of night. The words of his song, though few, carried a weight of meaning, echoing around us and embedding themselves in my consciousness.

"Let us celebrate our story

The words we’ve yet to write.

How we all wound up with glory

In the world we fought to right."

The lyrics resonated deeply, reflecting our collective journey and the individual paths that had led us here, to this moment around the fire. The repetition of the lines lent them a mantra-like quality, a reminder of our shared past and the unwritten future stretching out before us.

As the song repeated, the words began to feel like a lodestone, pulling us together in our shared experience, in the world we were striving to make our own. Each repetition seemed to forge a stronger bond among us, a recognition of our shared struggles and the hope for a future where our efforts would bear fruit, where the world we fought to right would become a reality.

In that moment, surrounded by the flicker of the fire and the melody of hope and resilience, I felt a surge of determination, a renewed commitment to Clivilius. The music, a simple yet powerful force, reminded me that despite the uncertainties and challenges we faced, we were a part of Clivilius, our individual stories woven into a larger tapestry of shared destiny.

As Joel's voice dwindled into a comfortable silence, the last echoes of his melody hanging in the air like a gentle mist, Glenda, with the grace of a seasoned performer, repeated the final stanza. Her violin's voice was a poignant echo of Joel's song, a tender homage that lingered in the cool night air. Then, with a final, resonant note that seemed to hold all the weight and beauty of the evening, she too ceased playing, her bow resting gently on the strings as she nodded toward Joel in recognition of his creation.

The moment felt suspended in time, a shared breath among us all, as we absorbed the lingering notes that danced around the embers of the fire. Then, feeling a swell of gratitude and camaraderie, I stood, my glass held aloft, catching the firelight and casting a warm glow.

"To Joel!" I announced, my voice carrying across the clearing, imbued with a mixture of pride and appreciation for the young man whose words and melody had drawn us together in such a profound way.

The response was immediate and enthusiastic. "To Joel!" echoed back, a chorus of voices, each one unique yet united in sentiment. The cheer roared, a wave of sound that spilled out into the night, travelling far beyond our little gathering, as if inviting the world to share in our moment of unity and celebration.

The energy was palpable, a tangible force that bound us together, each person caught up in the spirit of acknowledgment for Joel's talent and the collective experience we'd shared. The night, once merely a backdrop to our evening, now felt alive with possibility and promise, a canvas on which we were all invited to contribute our own strokes of colour and life.