The lights are dimmed by half, and the spotlight that illuminated the night has quietly finished its duty. The tobacco smoke has long since dissipated, leaving only the bittersweet scent of liquor and smoke embedded in the wooden walls and leather chairs. The old grand piano has finished playing through the long night, and the keys seem to still hold the warmth of fingertips.

The bar is filled with the low hum of the air conditioner and the stillness unique to the hours before dawn. The faint light of the emergency exit sign cuts diagonally across the stage, and the dust caught in that light twinkles like tiny specks of stardust.

As if melting into that silence, a single singing voice is born. A raw voice, not through a microphone. There is no accompaniment. It is a song directed at no one, quietly drawing the curtain on the end of the night. The voice slowly drifts across the empty seats, vibrates the polished glasses, soaks into the wooden walls, and eventually becomes the bar itself.