The Giant Who Forgot His Song
A Hearthside Fable, as told by Sebastian Tenoir, of the Clockwork Choir
Once upon a time, I was a giant who believed he knew everything worth knowing about music.
Behind the brass plates of my chest slept violins, bells, flutes, and horns fit to herald the sunrise. I could sing as softly as snow or loud enough to shake the rafters. Yet my finest music was never made alone.
There were others fashioned as I was, each with an orchestra beneath their breastplate. We called ourselves the Clockwork Choir, though that name tells only half the truth. We were musicians, certainly, but we were also family.
One brother loved marches and always made the final note too loud. A sister loved waltzes and always forgot a step. We teased, argued over arrangements, and rehearsed simply to be together.
When we sang, no voice was lost among the others. Each made room for the rest. That was our finest art, though I did not recognize it then.
Then came the calamity.
Some sorrows grow no kinder when placed upon a stage. It is enough to say our halls were broken, and their voices fell silent.
It is a curious thing to possess a heart made of gears. Others may suppose such a heart cannot break. In truth, it can break without making the slightest sound.
I could still have sung. Not a single mechanism had failed. Yet every melody carried someone I could never hear again. A waltz recalled my sister. A triumphant march brought back my brother. Even the simplest lullaby reminded me of evenings beneath the stars, when none of us had needed to sing alone.
So I shut the little doors in my chest and folded my instruments away.
For years I wandered the roads between strange worlds. I declined invitations to perform, stooped beneath doorways, and tried not to disturb anyone with my ticking. I made myself as small as a ten-and-a-half-foot giant may reasonably manage—which is to say, not very small at all.
I persuaded myself silence was devotion. If I never sang again, perhaps I could preserve my family’s music untouched.
One cold evening, a wandering road carried me to a tavern that had no sensible business being there. Gold glowed in the windows. Laughter spilled past the threshold. Above its door hung a sign bearing a mug, and within burned a hearth whose fire seemed to promise that the night could do its worst and still not reach those gathered around it.
Its name was the Mughouse.
The keeper, a fellow with golden eyes and an easy smile, welcomed me without hesitation. He offered me shelter and the use of his stage. When I could not accept the latter, he did not press me. He had offered a home, not an obligation.
I stayed, though I scarcely knew what to do with such kindness.
At first I kept to the farthest corner of the common room. I spoke softly, apologized whenever my legs inconvenienced a passing patron, and listened to the other musicians while pretending not to. When their melodies stirred old memories, I retreated into silence.
Then Tessa Blackwell discovered me.
She was a little girl with bright hair, brighter eyes, and a curiosity no locked door could long withstand. While others hesitated to approach me, Tessa saw a wonderful puzzle made of brass, and puzzles were meant to be investigated.
She studied the gears in my wrists and delighted that someone my size could handle a teacup without spilling a drop. Soon she climbed onto the chair beside mine each afternoon. I learned to recognize her footsteps.
I had spent years believing myself strange and cumbersome. Tessa appeared to consider both qualities excellent reasons to become my friend.
One afternoon, her attention settled upon the little silver doors in my chest. Curiosity led to questions about the instruments sleeping there, and questions led, gently but inevitably, to the story of the Choir.
I told her about our songs and our laughter. I told her of the voices I missed and why I could no longer bear to hear my own. She listened without trying to mend my grief.
Instead, she rested one of those hands upon my finger.
And she sang.
It was a lullaby her mother, Alyss, had sung to her on sick days and stormy nights, whenever nightmares or little sorrows made the world feel too large. She offered it as something that had always made her feel safe.
She sang a little too quickly, then a little too slowly. Her pitch wandered. Once she forgot a word, paused to recall it, and began the line anew.
There were no soaring harmonies, no grand instruments, no magnificent mechanical orchestra. Only one small, imperfect voice beside a golden fire.
Yet I listened as though she were the finest singer I had ever heard.
The song explained nothing about loss. It asked me neither to forget my family nor to stop missing them.
For the first time in many years, music entered my heart without tearing it open.
I did not sing with her. I did not even hum. The doors within my chest remained closed. But when she finished, I wished to hear it again. This small wish astonished me more than any miracle might have done.
Tessa returned with stories and a stuffed black cat whose silent approval I valued. Sometimes she sang. Sometimes we simply watched the flames.
I discovered that silence need not mean loneliness. There was a difference between the silence of an empty hall and the silence of two friends sharing a hearth.
I ventured farther from my corner and remembered how to laugh. Still, I did not sing. Tessa never asked me to.
Then the storm came.
Rain swept the windows. Wind worried the shutters, and lightning washed the darkness blue. Thunder shook the beams overhead.
Tessa sat beside me beneath a blanket, clutching her black cat. She had grown very quiet. Tears gathered in her eyes, and each fresh rumble made her draw her knees nearer. The fearless explorer of a hundred ordinary afternoons had become a frightened little girl wishing for her mother.
I knew that fear, though mine wore a different face. I remembered what Tessa had done when she found me grieving. She had stayed and offered the comfort she knew.
Now I wished to offer it back.
Deep within my chest, a small mechanism stirred.
Not the full orchestra. Not the horns or the mighty drums. Just a few silver pipes awakening after years of silence, and one voice I scarcely recognized as my own.
I began to sing her lullaby.
The first phrase trembled. With it came my brother’s laughter, my sister’s waltz, the empty halls and all the terrible years between. For an instant I feared that grief would swallow the melody whole.
Then I looked down.
Tessa was staring up at me, tears still tracing her cheeks, her eyes wide with wonder. She recognized the song. I could see that she recognized it, and something within me steadied.
I sang the next line.
There was no audience to impress. Only a child, a storm, and a tune her mother had sung to make the darkness less frightening.
I sang until Tessa’s shoulders relaxed. I sang until her breathing grew slow and even, until the little hand around my finger loosened in sleep. Outside, the storm continued. Inside, the song went on for a little while longer.
When at last I fell silent, I understood that singing again had not betrayed my family.
I had guarded their music so fiercely that no new song could enter. Yet the Choir had never taught me to make music alone. They had taught me to listen, to answer, and to leave room for another voice.
Alyss had comforted Tessa. Tessa had comforted me. That night, I could finally return the gift.
I still miss my family. I suspect I always shall. Some melodies remain difficult, and some memories arrive with a weight no art can lift. I have not been cured of grief, nor would I wish to love those I lost any less than I do.
But I no longer believe silence is the only faithful way to remember them.
These days, my instruments wake again. A familiar march carries my brother’s exuberance into the Mughouse. An old waltz recalls my sister’s imperfect steps. And among their songs rests a simple lullaby, given freely by a child who had never heard the Clockwork Choir perform.
Sometimes the greatest gift is to hear another’s sorrow and remain beside them. Sometimes it is to lend a song to someone who cannot yet find their own.
I was once the last giant of a fallen choir, with a thousand voices locked away inside me.
It took one small voice to remind me why we sang.
I’ll Sing for You
Read The Lyrics!~
[Intro – Soft Music Box, Gentle Piano]
[Verse 1]
There’s A Giant By The Fire,
With A Thousand Little Gears,
And A Hundred Shiny Buttons,
And A Heart That’s Full Of Tears.
He’s Taller Than The Doorway,
But He’s Gentle As Can Be,
And When I Sit Beside Him,
He Makes A Place For Me.
[Verse 2]
He Told Me Of His Family,
And How They Used To Sing,
Of Songs That Filled The Mountains,
And The Joy That Music Brings.
But Now His Songs Are Sleeping,
And His Silver Bells Are Still,
‘Cause Every Time He Hears Them,
He Remembers Who He Misses Still.
[Pre-Chorus – Soft, Tender]
I Don’t Know How To Fix It,
Or Make The Sadness Go,
But Mama Taught Me Something,
And It’s The Only Thing I Know…
[Chorus – Sweet, Simple Lullaby]
You Don’t Have To Sing Tonight,
I’ll Sing A Song For You.
Just Like Mama Sings For Me,
When I’m Feeling Blue.
You Don’t Have To Hide Your Heart,
Or Tell Me What To Do.
Just Sit With Me Beside The Fire,
And I’ll Sing For You.
[Verse 3]
I Know A Little Lullaby,
My Mama Sings At Night,
When Thunder Shakes My Window,
And I Hold My Blanket Tight.
I Sometimes Get The Words Wrong,
And I Sometimes Miss A Note,
But Mama Says It Doesn’t Matter,
When A Song Comes From The Heart.
[Pre-Chorus – Gentle Strings Enter]
And Maybe I’m Not Very Big,
And Maybe You’re So Tall,
But Even Great Big Giants
Need Someone After All.
[Chorus – Warm, Tender]
You Don’t Have To Sing Tonight,
I’ll Sing A Song For You.
Just Like Mama Sings For Me,
When I’m Feeling Blue.
You Don’t Have To Hide Your Heart,
Or Tell Me What To Do.
Just Sit With Me Beside The Fire,
And I’ll Sing For You.
[Bridge – Piano And Music Box, Intimate]
And When The Rain Came Falling,
And Thunder Filled The Sky,
I Sat Beside My Giant,
Trying Very Hard Not To Cry.
Then Somewhere In His Clockwork,
A Little Silver Bell
Began To Play The Lullaby
That I Remembered Well.
He Didn’t Sing A Thousand Songs,
Or Make The Mountains Ring.
He Played One Little Melody,
And That Was Everything.
[Final Chorus – Soft Strings, Emotional But Restrained]
You Don’t Have To Sing Tonight,
I’ll Sing A Song For You.
And When I’m Scared Of Thunder,
You Can Play It For Me Too.
We Don’t Have To Make The Sad Go,
Or Pretend That It Isn’t True.
We Can Sit Here By The Fire,
And I’ll Sing For You.
[Outro – Almost Whispered, Music Box Fading]
Mama Sings When I Am Sad,
And Now I Sing For You.
And If Your Heart Gets Lonely,
You Know Just What To Do.
Come Sit With Me Beside The Fire…
I’ll Sing For You.
