Misunderstood was dreaming when he saw the shadowy image of a two-story cabin on the edge of a field. Behind it, the darkness masked a forest whose only detail lay within its existence on the star-lit night sky. He stared and stared and listened and listened for more details to reveal themselves.
Behind the cabin, between it and the forest, he heard the songs of water running in a brook. Between he and the cabin, the tall grass of the moon-lit field swayed in the wind. From the second-story balcony of the home he noticed a flickering light.
As he drew closer he noticed curtains gently being lifted to and fro in the breeze from within French doors that were opened to a second-story wooden deck. Then he heard music, wonderful music, stirring his soul, making his heart pound a little harder than the fear of the unknown already had it beating. So he stopped moving for the moment, and closed his eyes and noticed the chirp of crickets synchronizing with the music.
He listened for meanings where he thought perhaps there were none and felt a chill that drifted from the fringe of his skin to his inner bones. He opened his eyes and watched as the ghosts of his ancestors buried all these years beneath his feet rose to once again exist among the living. “Perhaps this isn’t a dream,” he thought.
A ghostly apparition of his deceased grandmother put her hand on his shoulder. The touch surprisingly warmed him.
“Listen,” she said.
Misunderstood became aware that the music drifting into the night from the candle-lit room above was a song he had already written. And when he listened further he realized the water in the brook carried songs he had yet to write down.
“Everything you will ever need has already been given to you,” she said. “The choice is yours as to what you will leave behind, when you are gone.”