She sang.
In Portguese.
In Japanese.
In English.
And the time just passed her by like the ocean waves and the herds of clouds in the blue sky, and smells of the fragrant flowers and the intoxicating bento boxes with eel and crab and smoked Brazilian beef.
She sang of home. And for a moment she wished she was there, but then she realized that she could not go back.
Not yet.
Her fingers told her that the song was almost over.
She picked a final chord and arpeggiated it, letting the notes linger before she took her fingers off the strings.
She nodded in satisfaction, looking out the circular window at the stars blinking outside amidst hyperspace.
“That was some beautiful playing,” a voice said. A chubby twenty-something man leaned in the doorway to the canteen, arms folded. He had r
