somehow through the chaos her shamisen had survived. crouched in a hollow, sheltering from the bitter wind in the lee of a rock, she caressed the polished wood and stroked the strings. her fingers, numb with cold, fumbled at first. but as she began to play, familiarity guided her. cold, tired, hungry, bruised and wrapped in tattered rags, she played, her fingers dancing over the strings, and above the rattle and buzz of the shamisen she lifted her voice and wailed her anguish to the night.