I stumble, following the sound of the piano, through the grass as tall as I am that's so dry it crackles like straw under my fingertips. And as I reach the top of the muddy hill (it must've rained yesterday), I see another one further away with a single, half-dead willow standing framed against the slate-blue clouds. I can hear the sea by now, not in my ears but in my veins. I know it's just beyond that willow. As I heave my back straight, there's a hot feeling at the pit of my throat, like a ball of built up breath that's stuck, mingling within itself every time I exhale. It's  strangely hot even though the moor is windy enough to make my ears go numb. It tastes bitter and acidic, yet it doesn't burn. I part my freezing lips and take a breath of the cold, clear air. The feeling stays, but I don't care.

I can hear the sea past the willow. I push through the grass and follow the sound of the piano.