It was hard not to gasp.

We stood in Lark's penthouse suite in downtown Elpeck. It was sleek, round, and modern, like a crow's nest atop a mast, only walled by rings of glass. It had an open floor plan, with brightly colored furnishings scattered throughout. The three-level suite wound around a central axis like a spiraling staircase, with the kitchen down below, the living room in the middle, and the bedroom up top. Everything partook in the suite's curves: the sofas—against the walls, or in semicircles along the floor—the kitchen cabinets, the private bar's counter. If you squinted, it looked like everything was blurred, mid-spin.

And talk about the view!

It was midday, and I could see everything! It was as if I was in a bird's nest atop a forest of needles. Aerostats and aerobuses swam through the air, taking off for parts unknown. I saw the monorails, and the Expressways.

It was glorious.

"This is where you live?" I asked. "It's incredible."

"Yeah", Lark said. "It's got a nice view. Well… it did."

The spirit's somber mood fell like mist, descending from above. All around me, time blurred forward all around me. Sun and Moon rose and sank as days passed by.

I gasped softly.

The fast-forwarding slowed enough for me to realize what I was seeing—or, rather, when I was seeing it.

Lark's home gave me a front row seat to the fungus' invasion of my world. I watched in horror as it marched down Elpeck's streets. The traffic came first, jamming all the roads. People scrambled and ran. Fungus crawled out windows and scrambled up walls, subsuming the city in these time-lapsed memories.

Transformees took flight, turning into wyrms as the days passed by. The military arrived in short order, to bring order, but it only made things worse.

Zombies. Missiles and gunfire. Lasers, setting everything aflame.

I walked around the living area. "You were cooped up in here this whole time?"

"You betcha."

Looking around, I saw ghostly sequences of Lark going about her day. The wide-screen console TV's screen flashed between news and games and videophone calls.

All of a sudden, time slowed to its normal flow.

It was late. Very late. We'd gone straight past the witching hour to those moments where night melted into tomorrow, long before the Sun came up to shine.

Lark sat on the broad, deep blue sofa, with her arms spread at her sides. The singer wore a white suit. Once, I assumed, it had been prim and proper, but now it was stained, disheveled, and entirely unbuttoned. The table in front of her was covered in empty bottles of alcohol, packaging from microwaved meals; bags of chips, used and spent; and other refuse.

The Lark standing beside me wore the clean, fully-buttoned version of that same get-up.

Fires burned in the distance. The smoke clouds billowing up from the fires were massive, though they were gradually being eclipsed by the green clouds getting pumped out through sporestacks growing in clusters from the city's skyscrapers.

But, in the memory, Lark wasn't paying attention to any of that. Her focus was on the big console screen. Its light cast a pallor on her tired face.

Lark was in the middle of a videophone call. Even without the benefit of the singer's memories, I would've recognized the person on the other end of the call: Frédo-Frèdo, another one of the four Morgans.

He was the proverbial tall drink of water that a young girl like Nina Broliguez might fantasize about when no one else was looking. Stubble speckled his sharp cheeks and chin. His short, dark hair was barely tamed. Sweat glistened on his swarthy skin.

Frédo was infected; A Type One case. It looked like it was near the halfway point. The dark hyphae could be seen beneath his skin, the fungus' fingers grasping at his soul, leaving him struggling to breathe.

The mycelium had already reached the underside of his jaw.

"His actual name was Iftikhar Satadru, you know," my Lark said.

"Iftikhar?" I said. "Isn't that an—"

"Yeah, he's Arakkan."

"I thought he was Maikokan."

"Management gave him an ethnic rebrand," Lark said.

That was… disconcerting. "You can rebrand someone's ethnicity?" I asked.

Lark laughed. "Dude, you can rebrand anything. Reality is a fuckin' commodity. It's a corporate world; we're just the customers."

"Why?" I asked.

"They thought he'd appeal to a broader demo if people thought he was Maikokan."

"Again," I said, "why?"

"Politics."

I groaned. "This is going to be stupid, isn't it?"

Lark nodded excitedly. "You see, if you're Arrakan or Dalusian—especially in an international context—people immediately think you've taken a side in the Biyadi conflict."

"Did he?"

"Nope. Dude was a pacifist. Also, really, really gay. Unfortunately, this only made things worse, because then partisans on both sides of the conflict would have hated him."

I nodded. "And so they rebranded his race to avoid controversy."

"Yep."

It wasn't bad enough to get me to cheer on the fungus' omnicidal ambitions, but, yeah, it was pretty bad.

I sighed.

In the memory, Frédo spoke from the other side of the videophone call on the TV.

"Zong…" he said. "You're still alive. Wh-why haven't you called?"

The Lark splayed out on the couch lowered her gaze.

"Zong?" Frédo said. "Are you there? Answer me!"

Lark brought her hand to her face.

She was crying.

"I'm here, Frédo. I'm here."

My Lark looked on in shame.

Frédo coughed. "Why didn't you call? Zongman… Johnny and Antak are dead. They…" He wept. "Everything's falling apart."

The tears in Lark's eyes glinted in the console's light. "I can't take it, Ifti. I can't fucking take it. I'm not good with death. I'm shit at it."

Frédo staggered, clearly taken aback. "Zong…?"

Lark flopped an arm on one of the sofa's cushions. "I'm scared, okay? Buddy, this is the end. For all of us."

Lifting a leg, Lark pushed some of the refuse off the table in front of her with her foot. Empty bottles of booze clattered onto the floor and rolled across the carpet.

"All the shit we thought mattered?" she said. "It doesn't matter, not anymore." She downed the last quarter of a bottle of Odenskaya vodka that she hadn't knocked over. "Maybe it never fucking did."

There was a pause.

"Are you alone?" Frédo asked.

"More than ever."

Frédo coughed. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"Hey," Lark replied, slurring her words, "at least it's better than watching the life slip out of people's lives." She snorted. "Now, why are you callin' me, Ifti? Shouldn't you be at one of DAISHU's secret bases, gettin' a treatment, or somethin'?"

The other singer shook his head. "This isn't DAISHU's doing, Zongman. This is real. It…" He coughed terribly.

Lark dropped the bottle of vodka. "F-Fuck…"

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I swallowed hard. There was no way this conversation was going to end well. The feelings rippling off from Lark's spirit beside me told me as much.

"Listen, Zongman," Frédo said, "I'm calling because I… I wanted to say goodbye." His voice cracked. He wept. "In this crazy life of mine, you're the only guy I've ever had as a friend."

Lark's eyes bugged out in her head. "Wait… what?"

"I'm gonna to kill myself, Zong. I've seen how this disease kills people. Haven't you?"

Lark said nothing.

"I can already feel my memories starting to go," Frédo said. "I don't want to die that way. I'd rather go out with dignity."

Lark didn't know what to say in response. It was such a horrifying thought.

She staggered to her feet.

Frédo wept. "Remember when you told me about your dream?"

Lark nodded. "Opera…" she muttered. "It was fuckin' dead on arrival."

"That's when I knew we were the same," Frédo said. "I wanted to be a surgeon, but there was just no other way. How could anyone put money before someone else's life? I had no chance of making a living in Dalus. I was blacklisted. That happens to people who aren't in favor of the war."

"Why are you telling me this?" Lark asked.

Frédo shook his head. "Because I had to tell somebody. I just had to."

"Well, Ifti," Lark replied, "I think you've made one hell of a doctor."

Frédo nodded. "Thank you, my friend. You always know what to say."

Lark walked toward the TV screen. "Why don't you stay here for a while? You can tell me about your dream." Her breath caught in her throat. "Please don't go…"

Frédo lowered his head and turned away. "Go in peace, brother."

"No, Ifti!" Lark yelled.

She ran toward the screen, but the call cut out. The screen turned black, and then displayed a console's home screen.

"ALICE, dial Frédo!" Lark said. "Videophone call, now!"

The screen turned black. An idling icon appeared as the call rang and rang.

But nobody picked up.

Lark got down onto her knees, bent over, and screamed. She smacked the shag carpeting repeatedly, grunting and yelling with every blow.

"He was the best of us," her spirit said. "He was our golden boy. He put 120% into everything he did, and always with a smile. That pearly white smile."

She took a deep breath.

"Dr. Howle, I've only told two people that I dropped out of school. You're the second person. Ifti was the first. We ended up being roommates while I was in the stand-up comic phase of my life. He was the one who dragged me to the audition that landed me in The Morgans."

Lark's memory-self pulled out a PortaCon and held it in her trembling hands.

"I hadn't realized how much I hated being alone until Iftikhar said goodbye, but that's when it hit me. And it hit me all at once. I'd been whittling away the days, just letting myself rot. But… I shouldn't have wasted that time. I should have said goodbye!" She brought her clenched fist up to her chin. Her arm shook. Her face quaked with tears. "I didn't get to say goodbye to Shen! I hadn't realized how much that hurt until Ifti's goodbye. "

In the memory, in a fit of wrath and pain, Lark tore the TV console off the wall, tossed it onto the ground and then stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen.

I knew where the memory was going next, but I just couldn't follow it.

I didn't want to see Lark hurt herself.

"I just couldn't handle the contradictions anymore."

"But why suicide?" I said. "There was still time! There were people you could have told. Even a stranger would have been better than nothing."

Lark wept. "I didn't want to let the fans down—people like your Dr. Derric. With The Morgans, I ended up having success worthy of my brother's legacy. I built it up with blood, sweat and tears. I made myself a name; I did it for Shen! What kind of monster would murder the hero millions of fans had in their minds? I built an image for myself; I'm responsible for that!" She batted her arms, as if trying to strike a giant. "It's the only fucking thing I've ever been responsible for!" The movements had her stumble until she stood with the lower half of her legs phasing through the table, panting from exertion.

She drew in breath with a shuddering croak.

"I had to keep quiet, for them. But I couldn't live with myself if I kept silent. So," she shrugged, "I just couldn't live with myself." The singer lowered her head. "I don't want anyone else to suffer on my account. One dead brother is enough for one fucking lifetime. I'm so sick of it, Dr. Howle. I'm so goddamn sick of it."

Sniffling, arms wrapped around herself, she turned toward me. There were fresh tears in her eyes.

"You wanna know the honest truth?" she said. "The naked fricken' truth? My dreams were stupid! Nobody even likes opera, other than weirdos like you and me or upper class twits too stupid to do things they actually enjoy. I was delusional for ever thinking that I could make a name for myself with folks like that."

I gritted my teeth and sighed. "Well… that does it."

She looked up at me. "W-What?"

Raising my hand, I brandished the index finger of paternal admonishment and shook my hand at her.

"Lark," I said, very matter-of-factly, "you just insulted opera and the narrow slice of people who aren't upper class twits that genuinely enjoy it, and, well… I just can't let that stand. I've heard your recording, and it was heckin' good, and with the changes I made, it's even heckin' gooder! And you know what? I'm gonna to play it! And, just you watch, people are gonna love it1."

"You can't!" Lark's eyes widened like dinner plates. "They'll see me in a dress! They'll think I'm a fucking pervert!"

And I grinned. "No, they won't."

I'd just had a great idea.

— — —

I returned to my body with Lark on my tail, filled with anger and fear.

Not literally, of course.

"What are you doing?" she said, still in her spiffy white suit. "Where are you going!?"

But I ignored her.

While Lark and I had been traipsing through worlds of memory, the part of myself I'd left in my body had been doing his best to calm my colleagues about the eerie display of Sonata-echoing wyrmsong. I'd spirited the audience-ghosts back to their soul crystals, leaving the remaining healthcare workers to use their remaining time as they wished.

Ani was up on the mezzanine level, heading back to Ward E to help reunite more families in the afterlife.

I slithered back into the Hall of Echoes and raised my arm and waved. "Ani, wait!" My booming voice echoed off the marble.

With my clarinet still in hand, I levitated my PortaCon off the floor and up to the mezzanine level.

Lark yelled, eying it like a hawk.

"What is it?" Ani asked.

"Take my console," I said. "Search my video files for Lark. L-A-R-K." I glanced at the singer's spirit. "Hook my console up to the network and play the recording through the PA. Consider it an encore for my recital."

"If it's a video, shouldn't it be played through the holographic projectors?" Ani asked.

"No," I said, "I want audio only!"

Behind me, Heggy grumbled. "Well, you heard the man."

And Ani's footsteps joined the pitter-patter echoing through the Hall.

I turned around to face my latest patient.

Lark was positively seething. The singer's heavy, panicked breaths reminded me of my panic attacks of yore.

The edges of her figure had begun to blur and fray, as if her soul was threatening to turn into a white, man-shaped flame. But I confined the spirit's presence, separating it from my hyperphantasia's influence, and she stabilized a moment later, turning solid once again, but still utterly terrified.

"No, no!" Her hands shook. "You can't!"

I crossed my arms. "I've learned I need to be more assertive," I said.

I admit, I was being a little smug here. But, darn it, I was proud of the work I'd done with Lark's recording!

Lark grasped her head in her hands and fell to her knees.

"There's no point to any of this!" she said. "You're just making me upset! What kind of doctor does that? It's my fault my brother died, and it's my fault I chose to die without letting the world know who I really was. That's my shit! I made my decisions, you dick, and they're none of your fucking business!"

"You told Jonan who you really were."

Lark froze.

I could almost see the hamsters scampering around inside her mind, but I didn't, because hyperphantasizing that at this moment would have been seriously awkward, not to mention really darn weird.

"Lark, listen to me," I said. "You're not the only one who blames themselves for the death of a loved one."

"What?" Lark asked.

"You heard my sorrow—my music! I blame myself for my mother's death. I blame myself for my sister's death, too, and for my son's, most of all."

"Postpartum depression isn't your fault," Lark replied. "I jumped into that river. It's not like you jumped into your Mom's snatch."

"I wish I could persuade my feelings to agree with you," I replied. "But… you know what's different about my losses and yours, Lark? My mom, sister, and son didn't choose their fates. My mother wasn't thinking about the risk to her health when she chose to bring me to term after discovering she was pregnant. My sister didn't choose to be schizophrenic. And, my son…" I trembled. "…he only agreed to do the surgery because I pushed him into doing it. I pushed him to live the life that I wanted him to have, instead of listening to what he was telling me about the life he wanted to live." I shook my head. "But not Shen. Not your brother. He chose to put himself in harm's way to save you! That's love, Zongman Lark. That's real sacrifice. And at the risk of sounding presumptuous, you should be proud to have been able to honor your brother's devotion. You've done good work. You've made people happy. So… as a wise samurai once told me: stop hating yourself."

I spoke the words Yuta had spoken to me. "The world already has enough hate in it, and you've more than earned your fair share of happiness."

Then, as if on cue, Ani's voice rang through the PA.

"Genneth has told me we have an encore performance for everyone. It's the Song to the Moon, sung by Zongman Lark."

You could tell where the video was playing just by people's reactions: the murmurs, the turning heads; the pointing fingers; the looks of incredulity, bewilderment, and revelation.

But then… then came the music, that ageless wonder; the quiet prayers of the strings; the woodwinds' plaintive vistas.

Then Lark sang, and her song was the deepest magic of all, for it conjured silence. We saw nothing, yet we heard everything.

Speaking as someone who, on occasion, has viewed himself as a musician, musical greatness adhered to something of a bimetal standard—though, unlike silver and gold, both of the standard's parts were equally important.

The first standard was the smile. When a piece of music made everyone in earshot smile, or wiggle and dance, rest assured, it was a thing of greatness.

The second standard was silence, the kind of silence that comes without demand or expectation. As Mr. Himichi might have said, it's the kind of silence where you can hear time breathe, the sort of sound that leeches all quarrels right out of the air and commands the world to fall silent, to listen to something truly beautiful.

Princess Biluše's aria possessed this magic. It was a work for the ages; not even mediocrity could tarnish it, and Lark was as far from mediocre as they came. She resonated with the music's magic; she found herself within it, and, like a mirror, it reflected that self, for all of us to hear. This was a song of life and recompense, sung by someone who'd only ever truly lived in dreams, and in the small, quiet moments tucked between the vicissitudes of an unpredictable world.

To think, here, amidst all this suffering and death, here was life in full flower.

It was spellbinding.

I turned to Lark, kneeling, steely eyed and shivering, weeping tears that no one else could see.

I raised my claws and pointed. "Look."

And Lark looked.

All around us, people had stopped what they were doing. Those that could stand, stood, while the rest sat down, but always with their heads glancing upward.

"They're listening," I said.

Lark looked up in disbelief as her music played. The sense of silence it brought persisted, even after the final strains of Gallstrom's masterpiece had crept beyond the horizon.

It was the same silence my performance had earned.

And then came the applause. It was scattered at first, because the listeners were scattered. But it grew stronger as more joined in. People shouted. Coughs interspersed among the whistles and cheers.

Lark was completely overcome.

For her sake, I asserted myself once more.

"You're strong enough to face this," I said.

And then I brought it to the surface. I brought her to the surface. The one who was always there, but ever denied—until now.

Soon, Lark was no longer alone. She had appeared, standing beside her male self in all her finery. In the vale of death the hospital had become, she was a firebird, true to her name, defiant and tall, an icon of life lived to the fullest. She stood with flawless grace, in an ageless red dress with her hair black and bunned and nails that glistened like diamonds.

Against the backdrop of applause Zongman stood, rising to greet her. They each placed their hand on each others' cheeks, seeing each other, as if for the first time, and then they embraced—the singer and the diva.

In that moment, the Larks smiled, because they knew they had won. People stared off into the distance or looked around aimlessly, pained to return to the world as it had been. Even though the recording had ended, the music hadn't stopped, not really. It played on in our minds. There were some things that would be talked about that not even death could silence.

This was one of them.

I turned back to the Larks, and found that the two had become one. She stood before me in her full glory.

She started to speak, but then seemed to think better of it. There weren't words strong enough for these kinds of things.

So she floated up and kissed me, gracing my face with her touch. I closed my eyes, shivering from the feeling, and when I opened them again, she was gone—off to be herself, I suppose.

"Brava, Lark," I said, softly. "Brava."

"Genneth," a voice said, speaking behind me.

As I turned and found myself face to face with Dr. Suisei Horosha, I made a note to add "do not manifest to me directly behind me" to the pamphlets I handed out to my newly uploaded ghosts.

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