[Sigmund continues working quietly on his flute, although he pauses to sweep away any sharp little wood chips next to him, if she wants to sit down. As she gets closer, she might notice that he looks... odd today. Like the air is rippling around him, or-- no, more like a reflection in a pond, after you've dropped a pebble through it. It's a faint half-image, more not than there, but what little can be made out looks like him only... not quite. There's something subtly different. Something off? Or something more? It's hard to tell.]
A flute.
A flute.
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chasethestars
chasethestars
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