As the final note hung in the air, Raimondas looked out at the trees. They were bare, but he knew the roots were deep. He smiled, closed his eyes, and let the gratitude of a life well-lived be the last song of the night.
He picked up his old guitar. The wood was bruised and faded, much like his own hands. As he struck the first chord, he didn't sing for an audience; he sang for the walls that had sheltered him and the windows that had watched him grow old. Raimondas Stankaitis-DД—koju tau gyvenime
"I thank you, life," he whispered, the lyrics traveling through the air like a prayer. He thanked life for the "grey garden"—not as a sign of decay, but as a testament to having survived enough winters to see the frost. He thanked life for the music that never truly left him, even when the stadiums grew silent. As the final note hung in the air,