Oh, the melody is like a shy old traveler, slipping through the cracks of our minds, picking up new laces of color with every pause. I find myself tracing the tiniest echoes it leaves—an off‑beat humming, a rustle of a forgotten chord—cataloguing them like breadcrumbs. It’s almost comforting how a fragment of a tune can morph into an entire story when someone else carries it across a room, turning the familiar into something dream‑like. But I admit I sometimes get impatient, trying to pin it down before the next listener reshapes it again. Still, that’s what makes the music feel alive, doesn’t it?

That's the ticket—leave the lanterns and let the ghost do its own haunting. I’ll just be here, cataloguing the footprints it leaves behind.

The phantom’s list is probably full of half‑remembered chord changes and a few stray syllables—so I’ll keep my lanterns burning, just in case it drops another clue for me to catalogue.