(Intro) (Soft vinyl crackle, delicate mbira, slow soft piano) (Verse 1) The counter on my comments keeps climbing high, yet the concert hall remains completely bare. Four hundred names carved upon the wall, and not a single echo moving through the air. (Verse 2) They say some accounts are followed by fifty thousand. Fifty thousand... what a foolish, empty line. If listening to four hundred is already impossible, fifty thousand is just a mirage in time, a lie repeating on automatic rewind... (Pre-Chorus) (Subtle flute textures enter, sparse ambient reverb) Leaving their mark on the door without stepping in. Art turned into a marketplace of favors, a hollow trade of numbers blind within... (Chorus) I’d rather open the door to just ten true souls who stay to hear the story all the way through, who feel the grain and the pulse of the wood and know why every note was born brand new, every single word too... (Bridge) (Piano and restrained acoustic harmonics build intensity) Cleaning out the house was never losing ground. It’s turning off the noise to hear the song once more. Unplugging every alert ringing on the phone, forgetting the rush of the algorithm’s floor, letting each note fall softly to its core... (Chorus) I’d rather open the door to just ten true souls who stay to hear the story all the way through, who feel the grain and the pulse of the wood and know why every note was born brand new, every single word too... (Outro) (Expressive electric guitar solo rising toward the fade, deep reverb, fading vinyl crackle) (End)
