Fitz was sitting on a grassy slope just outside the city, with a view of the sparkling lake, playing his guitar.

When Karl was close enough to make out the melody, he stopped to listen. Fitz nodded at him, but didn’t stop playing. Six notes that rose and fell in a pulsing curve.

Sail on, sailor, sail on,

Still listening for your siren song;

Tomorrow is your only home...

The voice trailed off, the hands kept playing for a few more bars, rounding out the chorus. ‘I never could come up with a last line for that bit... I suppose it’s kind of fitting, in a way. That it’s not finished.’

‘Why is that?’ said Karl softly.

‘It’s about him. I wrote it about him a long time back now, before... before we met Anji. Maybe one of these days I’ll play it for him again.’