And they began to sing.
At first it was barely a whisper. A memory of melody. It lifted the faces of weary commuters and alighted on the lips of tourists. It burst forth from mouths of men and women, shaking the tired circles from their eyes as they lifted their faces skywards and breathed in the rhythm. There were no words, only the realisation; the gentle, glorious dawning of the song.
Slowly, the sound of the traffic died away. Drivers left their cars and stood in the street, the song dancing on their tongues. As more voices joined the chorus, the tune began to change. The beauty of the music soared, multiplied and manipulated by the variety of the voices. It rose and fell with the intonations of thousands, all accents and languages merging into music, into song.
The music changed and the voices grew stronger. More people came. The low, primal notes leapt from their lungs until the air oscillated with their music and their joy. The song spoke of what could be. The vital, visceral sounds of life, amplified by many mouths, many hearts. They sang. And in singing, they knew they were not alone.