Dawntide Visual Novel OST Piano

Описание: The song from furry visual novel game "Dawntide"
Original music by Choob
Inspiration & Motivation: Griff
Composition & Performance: Jazingsen

Piano score by Jazingsen:
https://musescore.com/user/76725682


This piece of music is dedicated to L.

In my memory, since the day I met L., his harmonica has never left his side. Whenever L. plays his beloved instrument, I know winter has once again descended upon the northern hills of his hometown.

I’ve always believed time stands still when gazing at the sky. Autumn stretches endlessly here, while winter bleeds the world into muted tones and faint static. Even if yesterday’s self has died, today’s me — while writing these scattered fragments — still cannot articulate my past. Those memories are like sticks haphazardly piled in a corner; pulling out one would bring the whole stack crashing down.

L. once told me, "We don’t write to memorialize lost time, but to prevent useless fantasies from drowning our bodies in pain. Years of self-reflection and evasion have made your emotional needs and environmental adaptability hypersensitive. You’re like a mountain shrouded in mist — when the fog finally parts, what’s revealed is ever-shifting. The mist isn’t in the mountain, but within you."

L. said if he could, he’d collect every one of my nightmares. When the false sun sets in ashes, what exactly is this veiled heart obscuring? I think destinations and journeys have always existed in fixed places. We can’t stop winter’s arrival, just as humans can’t resist being folded by time. Words and works steeped in pain and artistry can never truly serve as life’s compass —

I’ll endlessly flee rather than solve the equation of self-reconciliation, forever paralyzed in the rain. Time strangles fate’s throat, sketching its shadow, flaunting itself in overexposed photographs with dead pixels.

Even if you make me confront those nightmares in the rain, L., what then? In dreams I experience alternate endings — explosions in dark corners, blood spraying walls, those visceral patterns becoming proof I existed. After silence falls, I recall so much: familiar games, violent conjectures, self-fashioned kindness. In this coldness, there’s no one to lie down beside me.

Small fish follow the flowing river, dear one, you stir my heart. These emotional tides surge stronger than imagined. In all these changed landscapes, we gaze sharply yet exist vaguely — memories becoming fiction. Yet L., you’ve never shared the whole world with me.

Somewhere along the way, these beautiful voids grew precious. The crumpled autumn resists smoothing, pain concentrates too thickly, words stay confined, weakness remains constant. Tossed in the vortex, this endlessly folded life is a fate I can’t escape.

The literary creations distilled from my suffering feel clumsy, heavy, blurred, false. Like ancient storms fleeing to distant horizons, everything about me feels fragile, as if a single touch could shatter it all. To the tree, I’m just a leaf — destined to fall, to die in unwitnessed places.

Now my eyes burn, no longer containing tears. Whether it’s the heavy thud of tears hitting sheets or the bitter salt sliding down cheeks into my mouth, I feel my flesh "perishing," consciousness worn smooth beyond words.

L., are you truly listening? Do you truly exist in this world? Would you truly love and understand me?

If someday you could play those "drowning flashback" melodies on your beloved harmonica, perhaps we could pass through twilight to where wheels roll endlessly — a place without sorrow, where we love completely...