The music that followed was slower, rooted in an old-world charm—each note unhurried, carrying the weight of time.
A melody of flute and strings rose and fell like the hush of wind through ancient trees, tender yet unshakably strong, as if it had been sung in the hearts of generations before them.
It lingered in the air, wrapping the room in a warm, wistful embrace.
From the far side of the stage, the elders walked forward—not performers, but living stories.
Men and women in their sixties, seventies, even a couple near their nineties, moving with elegance that didn't seek to impress—it simply was.
Their steps were smaller, deliberate, yet carried weight.
Two by two, they began moving across the stage, their hands clasped behind their backs, their heads tilted slightly toward one another.
Some hummed softly along with the music. Others simply smiled—at the crowd, at each other, at something remembered.
