The Lady in White [ENG]

warm raspy male vocal with airy reverb-drenched double-tracked harmonies at the crescendo, post-rock emo revival, tremolo-picked clean-to-distorted guitar walls building to crescendo, atmospheric guitars with shimmer reverb, ambient piano, restrained rhythm section opening into cathartic wide-open drums, narrative diary-like vocal delivery, dreamlike unease building to raw open catharsis, diegetic kundiman guitar and vocal fragment drifting in during the bridge, cold maritime atmosphere, restrained until the bridge

CUSTOM

Written by John Paul Bantigue
Corin & The Unfinished
BMI • IPI/CAE 01366401460
© 2026 John Paul Bantigue
℗ 2026 John Paul Bantigue • JP Bantigue Records
jpbbantigue.com

The lady in white, she walks the waves,
she never asks, she never stays.
Footprints wet on an empty floor,
a cabin door that won't stay closed anymore.
We don't know her name. We don't know her story.
We just know the water remembers
what we never will.

We were three hours out when the wind went strange,
quiet in a way that wasn't quite quiet.
Someone said they saw her on the water —
not in it. On it. Standing like the sea was floor.

We laughed it off the way you do at sea,
told him it was fatigue, told him it was salt spray.
But then the second watch went pale as well,
and none of us were laughing after that.

She doesn't speak. She doesn't drift.
She just points — always the same direction —
like she's still trying to finish something
none of us were ever part of.

Another ship, another year, same stretch of sea —
they say they heard a song before they saw her.
Old and slow, in a language half of them didn't know,
drifting in on the wind like it was looking for someone too.

We compared our stories once, at a dock bar —
turns out we'd all seen the same tired dress,
the same quiet hand pointing at nothing,
the same wet footprints leading nowhere.

Listen —
that's the song again, isn't it,
the one none of us can place, the one
that sounds like it's older than the ship, older than the sea —

We don't know who she's pointing for.
We don't know who she's waiting for.
We just know we're not the ones,
and we sail on grateful, and we sail on haunted,
and we never say her name out loud.

Every crossing has its story.
This one just happens to be true.

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Written by John Paul Bantigue Corin & The Unfinished BMI • IPI/CAE 01366401460 © 2026 John Paul Bantigue ℗ 2026 John Paul Bantigue • JP Bantigue Records jpbbantigue.com The lady in white, she walks the waves, she never asks, she never stays. Footprints wet on an empty floor, a cabin door that won't stay closed anymore. We don't know her name. We don't know her story. We just know the water remembers what we never will. We were three hours out when the wind went strange, quiet in a way that wasn't quite quiet. Someone said they saw her on the water — not in it. On it. Standing like the sea was floor. We laughed it off the way you do at sea, told him it was fatigue, told him it was salt spray. But then the second watch went pale as well, and none of us were laughing after that. She doesn't speak. She doesn't drift. She just points — always the same direction — like she's still trying to finish something none of us were ever part of. The lady in white, she walks the waves, she never asks, she never stays. Footprints wet on an empty floor, a cabin door that won't stay closed anymore. We don't know her name. We don't know her story. We just know the water remembers what we never will. Another ship, another year, same stretch of sea — they say they heard a song before they saw her. Old and slow, in a language half of them didn't know, drifting in on the wind like it was looking for someone too. We compared our stories once, at a dock bar — turns out we'd all seen the same tired dress, the same quiet hand pointing at nothing, the same wet footprints leading nowhere. Listen — that's the song again, isn't it, the one none of us can place, the one that sounds like it's older than the ship, older than the sea — We don't know who she's pointing for. We don't know who she's waiting for. We just know we're not the ones, and we sail on grateful, and we sail on haunted, and we never say her name out loud. The lady in white, she walks the waves, she never asks, she never stays. Footprints wet on an empty floor, a cabin door that won't stay closed anymore. We don't know her name. We don't know her story. We just know the water remembers what we never will. Every crossing has its story. This one just happens to be true.

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