I sit where the water holds me still, where the world, for a moment, forgets its violence. My hands move instinctively, pulling sound from silence, each note a quiet resistance. But I can feel it. Behind me, they dance. Their laughter is too loud, too bright, painted smiles stretched over something hollow. It looks like a celebration, but it isn’t. It’s a ritual, repeated so no one has to look too closely, so no one has to name what is really happening. War does not always arrive as fire and ruin. Sometimes, it hides in noise, in spectacle, in the insistence that everything is fine. I do not turn. At the edge, someone is watching, framing this moment, keeping a safe distance. It is easier to observe than to feel, easier to document than to disrupt. Still, I play. Because if I stop, the silence might reveal too much. So I remain here, between peace and chaos, offering something soft in a world that keeps choosing distraction over truth.