The snow was falling in full-bodied flakes now, thick and lazy. He fidgeted to situate himself. The ground was at least soft and insulated beneath the blanket thanks to all the fallen pine needles. Reigen held his fingers to the fire to warm them up--the melody he had in mind required a light and delicate touch.

Reigen strummed the bachi against the strings. The notes began softly, tentatively even. The rhythm was slow and uneven much like the first few flakes before the snowfall. The melody hit it's stride, measured and sparse. Each pluck lingered as if drawing out the anticipation of what was to follow. Then, it quickened. His fingers resisted the chill that threatened to settle into them again as they picked up the tempo, a tremolo rising and rising until it became one long and resonant note. Then, as quickly as it had risen, the sharp edges of the notes softened and thinned. His fingers coaxed the last notes of the melody out in a gentle rippling sigh that hung in the air before fading away.

Swallowing, Reigen bowed his head, as was traditional.