By the time she had made it to the lake near the southern fringe of mountains, Eleuthera was panting hard to haul fresh breath into her heaving lungs, but the smile on her face clearly expressed the joy in it. From there, she meandered through the beginnings of a meadowed area, and as the treeline began to thin, the chiming sound of rushing waters grew.
She began to murmur, singing under her breath — not words or lyrics per se; but many cooing melodies and sounds that were in all rights, nonsensical. It was a curious thing, that the swirling current of the lake did not drown out her voice completely. Rather, it seemed to be its perfect accompaniment. The twists and turns of the bright, aqueous sounds danced with her low crooning, coming together to create something that dazzled her ears and commanded her own rapt attention. Like this, she sat at the water’s edge.
She had heard singing before, but she had never heard music.