CHAPTER 78 – The Long and Winding Road (2)

With a gentle cough, the friendly docent informed Eppie that the crowd was coming.
Eppie dried her tear stains before Vaughan’s guests entered. Next time, assuming there was a next time, she would need waterproof eyeliner.

The doors opened.

The conversation arrived before the bodies, pooling around the pair like water finding a level, filling the circular room.

She recognised all the faces now; the people she should have been performing I Look Up as I Cry for, had Valorie not attended.

Trent Davis.
Frederick Curon.
Alan Nakamura.
And her “boss’s boss”, Takashi Oribe, with his private translator.

Francis Sanders entered with his daughter.
Valorie positively glided, moving as if weightless, bringing a smile to Eppie’s lips.

Juliana was now joined by Mirabelle, and they motioned for her to attend to them. Kiritani released her like a dove, and she drifted toward the two outrageously tall women to stand among them like a rather striking pheasant among cranes.

“Five decades.” Vaughan’s voice filled the room without effort, and the guests quietened immediately. “For five decades, Kiritani Sensei carried our hidden history with his own two hands, mapping our neglect on the found canvas of our consumerist leftovers. But tonight, we have lit a torch—a torch of revelatory reality, and dropped it down the dark well of American history, lighting up the past.”

A docent approached Kiritani and helped him into the centre of the display, where his final work would soon be seen by hundreds of thousands of visitors—the most important of which would be the survivors of the unjust incarceration and their families.

“By claiming custodianship of this injustice,” her not-Sensei continued. “We have taken the first step to ensuring that such horrors will never again set foot on our blessed American soil!”

The room burst into applause, while Eppie felt a shiver run down her spine. In 2032, not only had internment camps for “illegals” become commonplace, but they had ceased to be newsworthy. The struggles of the middle class, the housing crisis, the cost-of-living crisis, and the fuel-cost crisis were far more salient to the average American than the rights of people with complexions a shade too dark for the anxious voter.

Kiritani stepped forward.

“Thank you,” he said in English, then bowed. A full, formal bow, the kind of movement that was impossible for at least one-fifth of the guests.

The applause that followed was warm, genuine, the kind that comes from people who, at least in this moment, meant it with all their heart.

Eppie watched Juliana’s eyes catch Curon’s, watched the exchange between them, and then Juliana cleared her throat.

“Ma Dauphine.” Her voice rose above the congratulations. “Was there something you’d like to play? As per our former arrangement for Vincent?”

Eppie stepped into the limelight.

She did indeed have a song to play.

Her faux-father was moving before Eppie finished presenting herself. He ducked out of sight, then returned ten seconds later with a heavy guitar case from a docent. On his knees, heedless of his own optics, he popped the box and handed her a Martin D-35 as if he were the Lady of the Lake.

The crowd made space for Eppie, then was delighted when she raised a white arm and welcomed Valorie into the fold.

Eppie had expected Valorie to be blushing furiously, but the moment the metaphorical curtains opened, Val’s entire demeanour transformed itself into that of a professional actress.

Val was coy—but she was in no way stage shy.

That’s our Valorie… Eppie smiled to herself as a docent brought her a stool. Curon helped her up so that Eppie could sit with her legs crossed and her heels dangling, her Martin D-35 nested comfortably against a raised thigh. Most of the folk present knew that she had performed “Starry Starry Night” live for Vaughan in the past, and that was how teacher and student had met.

What they did not know was that Eppie wasn’t the star tonight.

She tuned the guitar, aided by [Perfect Pitch], achieving the desired resonance within a few simple twists of the pegs.

“This is a song… about reconciliation, compassion, and letting go.” Eppie’s voice filled the room, taking advantage of the circular structure’s acoustics.

“It has no explicit title,” she added, flashing the crowd a dazzling smile, which, combined with her smeared cat’s-eye makeup, made them all feel inexplicably sympathetic to this slip of a girl. “The song will have a modified license. Anyone can sing it. To their loved ones. To the lost ones. To a friend long gone, to a mother, a son, a daughter… a father…”

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Her fingers struck the strings.

The F rang clean, unhurried, exactly as simple and honest as she had promised. Then the second chord, B-flat, dropped beneath it like a breath released. Her fingers found the shape without thinking, restoring lost music to a happier, unsuspecting world.

Valorie’s breath caught beside her, sensing the emotion before it even manifested.

Together, the melody emerged, timeless and enduring—five notes, stepwise, unhurried, stirring a wave of nostalgia the listener hadn’t known existed.

Eppie opened her throat to song, her eyes resting on Valorie.

“Hey Val…”