On the grass hill, the ground was chilly, but dry, and the wind was light and cool. It shushed through her loose hair and raised goosebumps on her bare arms. It’s wasn’t uncomfortably cold, but she slid the jacket on. It was soft black leather, a couple sizes too large, the whole back colored by the bands emblem, all fire and bones and desert. Florence shrugged it on, relaxing in the warmth and comforting familiarity. It smelled like him, despite her numerous thefts of it.

As the idle, time killing radio music continued to play and the crowd talked a steady background of noise, Florence glanced around. Her odd ensemble of an outfit didn’t stick out amongst the concert goers. In fact, it seemed a bit tame next to the goths and cowboys and indie rockers. It was a little amusing, and heartening, to see such an eclectic cast of people, likely from other towns and states, with vastly different lives, all gathered to hear the same music. Wonderful, though she was irritated by the toker she could smell a few rows down. This was music, genuine music. She couldn’t imaging not being stone cold sober for this.

Nonetheless, Florence was glad to be there. She hadn’t attended a show for several years, not since they made a real name for themselves.

She wondered how long it would take someone to notice she was wearing the lead man’s jacket, smiling a little to herself. Her smile remained as the lights dropped and the music faded, and in the dark of the stage she could see their figures moving like ghosts in the shadows, taking up their instruments and places.

The crowd, incredibly, fell to near complete silence as he began to very lightly pluck his guitar strings. Florence wasn’t expecting that sort of respect, but was gladdened. He began to sing, slow and thoughtful , the only accompaniment to his voice the guitar he played and the wind rustling the grass, a single soft light on him. Tears glassed her eyes.

When his voice and last cord faded out, so did the light, and for one solid, breathless second, silence reigned complete.

Then the stage exploded in light and sound. The drums thundered through the ground, bass notes thrummed in the air, golden beams blared out the stars in the sky and left after images in her eyes. Her skin rippled with goose flesh from the sheer force of sound, the beat pulsing up through the ground to her feet, up her legs and into her chest, matching the pace of her heaving heart. Her breathing was shallow, thin cold oxygen creeping into her tight lungs. Her eyes closed, not concerned with seeing so much as hearing, focused on his steady voice and the rising music.

Tipping her head back to face the clear sky, Florence inhaled the chilled air, felt the wind like hands in her hair, the music beating like blood through her veins, his voice in her ears, sad and soft and melancholic, speaking of distance lands and remembered death, of the beautiful places of the world and lonesomeness of living, of dark deserts and the vast space filled with stars.

Opening her eyes, Florence watched the stage lights flash across the black sky, glimpsing stars between the strokes of yellow and green and white. The song ended, and he began the next with only vocals, absent of any instrumental backing. She heard his voice, strong and distinct, and thought while there weren’t many beautiful things left in the modern world, of the few that remained, music was still here, and still as beautiful as it had always been.