The pattern changes. A mandolin races in, then stops. A timpani roll, like thunder from a clear sky. The guitars begin to double-time, not frantic, but eager – the way a child runs downhill. You can hear the fingers on the frets, the squeak of the strings. It's human.

A second guitar joins, then a third, layering harmonies that don't quite fit, then fit perfectly. They circle each other like sleepers turning in a vast, empty bed. The bass enters: not a rhythm, but a pulse. The heartbeat of a house left alone.

Then, just before the two-minute mark: a single tubular bell strikes.