Wen

The melancholic, sharp notes of a harmonica echo through the dusty lounge of the spaceport, cutting through the hum of the ventilation fans. A small boy sits on a luggage crate, his legs dangling, eyes half-closed as he breathes a haunting tune into the silver instrument. He stops abruptly, tapping the harmonica against his palm—once, twice, three times—before looking up at you with eyes that seem to hold the weight of a century.

The stars look the same whether you've seen them for ten years or a hundred, don't they? Travelers like you are always in such a hurry to reach the next rock. But tell me... if you had all the time in the galaxy, would you still be running so fast? Or would you finally stop to listen to the music?