Lucien remained seated on the bed with his eyes closed.
The question had changed.
Lucien stopped looking at what had been there.
He followed the memories farther.
The river came first.
Young Lucien had visited it often. There was nothing unusual about that. The water passed close enough to the village that children played near the shallows, adults washed tools along the bank, and people occasionally crossed to gather plants growing on the opposite side.
The strange sound had appeared there more than once.
Young Lucien had never questioned why.
He simply liked listening to it.
Lucien followed one particular memory.
Young Lucien had spent an afternoon sitting on a flat stone near the bank, staring toward the water while the pleasant resonance drifted at the edge of his hearing.
Nothing happened.
He went home.
Lucien frowned.
If he had stopped there, the memory would have been meaningless.
So he continued.
