The song is beautiful

The song is beautiful.
But it ends, as all songs must.

And there isn't a dry eye in the house.
Men who built up walls have had them shattered.
Children who do not know loss now know they lack, something.
The entire front row are standing, sending a ripple through the crowd.
There is cheering. Yelling. There is celebration of what has happened.
Tinged with the demand, the raw urge to hear more.

In the midst of the crowd, a young woman sits.
She did not stir. She did not applaud. She was certain this would work.
The musician was the best around, after all.

After the show, the musician is mobbed.
They plead patience. And take time. Every fan has their ten seconds.
And every ear that heard is a fan. So this takes a while.
Exhaustion sets in. The entourage is big, but not unkind.
There for the musician's protection, they try to guide away by the shoulder.
Their efforts are fruitless. The musician has seen their target.

"You. Young woman. I have something for you.".
The crowd gasps. And parts.

She stands alone. Just as she was before.
The only one unmoved.

"You came seeking emotion. You came hoping I would provide.
Alas, this musician can only do so much.
Let me just say this.

Keep searching.
You will find your song.
It will not be the same as anyone else's, and you may have to play it yourself.
But it exists. Or, at least, it will someday.
If you keep looking."

The musician turned, and so did the woman.
The fans went after the musician, fawning and asking for guidance of their own.
He had already given them all he could.

The woman?
She knew the song was beautiful.
But that it had ended.
All she had to do, was find the next one.