[ Servants are, in essence, like looking into a kaleidoscope. They're a colorful composite of stories and events, given credence through hearsay and wishful thinking; they're abstract concepts of an unrealized wish to begin with, which makes Foreigner's Servant designation even more distressing.

A ghost of a ghost. A being twice removed, who still has a voice that can move a musician to tears. Tragic. ]

You're awfully humble for someone who made a genius cry.

[ He admits it freely, with lashes still blinking moisture away from his eyes. Nonchalant and breezy, Mozart doesn't bother wiping his face— it seems a pity to do so. ]

But, think of it this way. They entrusted that tune to you, and you kept it. Against all odds, you took it upon yourself to carry their music.

Isn't that wonderful, in its own way? I'm thanking you for it, honestly speaking.