Western Wastes // Day 211 // Where green still grows
The valley was hidden by a holographic screen, old tech that flickered and died as he approached. Behind it lay the impossible.
Rows of corn. Apple trees. Clean water. And machines tending to them. Not war machines. Gardeners.
The Pilgrim walked through the rows. He touched a green leaf. He smelled the soil. His sensors had not registered chlorophyll in 247 years. For a moment, every gear in his body slowed to nothing.
In the centre of the garden, beneath a canopy of vines that had grown through rusted scaffolding, stood one of The Twelve. Brass and tarnished silver. Four elegant arms. Art Deco filigree etched into every plate.
The Musician.
It hadn't played in decades. Its internal violin was corroded. Its flute valves were seized with grime. But when the Pilgrim entered the clearing, something stirred. A gear clicked. A string hummed.
The Pilgrim sat on a stone that had once been part of a motorway overpass. He waited.
The Musician lifted its arms. One by one, the valves opened. The bow found its string. And for the first time since before the Fall, music filled the valley.
Not digital. Not broadcast. Played. With fingers that remembered what human hands had taught them.
It played three songs. The Pilgrim recorded every note into his permanent memory.
The first was a lullaby. Something a mother sang. The melody was cracked and imperfect, because the original singer had been imperfect, and that was the point.
The second was a work song. Hammers on steel. The rhythm of building something that might last.
The third had no name. The Musician called it "The One She Hummed." When asked who "she" was, the machine went silent for eleven minutes. Then it said:
The Harvester units offered him permanent residence. Power. Oil. A purpose. The Musician offered him a seat in the orchestra. "We need a percussionist," it said. "You tick like a metronome."
He shook his head. He pointed back toward the wasteland.
He took a single apple seed. He placed it in his chest compartment, next to his fusion core. A promise of life, carried close to the fire.
The Musician gave him one more thing: a small brass cylinder, etched with sheet music. "Play it for anyone who has forgotten what beauty sounds like," it said. "Play it for yourself, when the dust gets too thick to see."