Sarek had not lifted his lyre from its stand for five weeks. When he lifted it now, his fingers left impressions in dust. Everyone knew that his son was a virtuoso on the lyre, but few knew that it was from Sarek that he had inherited his talent, and with Sarek that he had spent long, rigorous hours learning the precise technicalities of the instrument.

Sarek took a cloth, and very carefully and precisely wiped the dust from the surfaces, wondering how much of the dust was composed of cells from his wife's then-living body. Very little, he knew. Dust was made up of particles of sand, soil, of scattered motes of the house one lived in. But this dust was also, in the smallest amounts, his biological matter, and Amanda's biological matter, mingled and scattered evenly over every surface in the house, silent and resolute in its takeover.

The piano stood in the same room, just as neglected as the lyre – except for the fact that Sarek had never learnt to play that particular instrument, and now he had no one who could teach him.

Untrue. Illogical, in fact. Spock had learnt piano at his mother's side just as he had learnt the lyre at his father's side. Spock had progressed to be almost as proficient at the instrument of his mother's people as he had at the instrument of his father's. But, illogical as it may be, Sarek could not reconcile himself to the idea of learning from his own son something that he had never learnt from his wife in the decades of opportunity he had been given.

On an impulse unexplained by logic, Sarek took the lyre out into his wife's rose garden. It was dawn – or to be precise, it was the time just before dawn, when the sky was beginning to tint itself crimson, and low swathes of mist hung over the desert, imparting vital water to the plants before the blazing sun could burn all traces of moisture away.

Amanda's rose garden was protected by forcefields, but here too the plants were favoured with dew. Sarek had programmed the computers himself, over sixty years ago, and the schedule of dew, rainfall, filtered light, light breezes and nutritional release in the soil had proven so perfect that it had never had to be changed. The roses would continue to thrive, as long as the computer that cared for them continued to thrive. But – there was no one to prune them, Sarek realised with a pang. He had never taken particular notice of how one pruned roses… There was no one to gather bouquets and set them in vases about the house. Computers could keep plants alive, but they could not care for them…

Sarek sat. If he began to ponder on the miracle of a computer keeping a plant alive, he was would start to analyse why a computer, and the skill of Vulcan's best doctors, could not keep a single human alive. He had discovered in the past five weeks that it was best not to think at all…

He inhaled the damp air into his lungs. Dampness was not good for a Vulcan's lungs – especially for a Vulcan of his age – but he was giving very little thought to his own longevity at the moment, other than seeing it as a curse. The damp would perhaps not be beneficial to the lyre, either. That seemed to matter more to him than his own health – but provided he took care with the instrument afterwards, a short exposure would not harm it. Inanimate objects were more resilient than living bodies.

Sarek placed the instrument carefully on his knee, and began to play. As the strings resonated he caught sight of rounded, shining droplets of dew shivering together on the rose petals and leaves, coalescing into greater drops that slipped like tears to the floor. They did not even splash on the damp soil, but were immediately absorbed as if they had never been. The tune was an ancient one – the lament of a man who had lost his wife. Amanda had always loved it. Sarek had never imagined that he would play the piece as more than a simple interpreter of the notes.

Above the shimmering forcefield, a t'h'yla bird began to circle, calling for its mate, using the thermal upcurrent from the house to aid its flight. Sarek let his gaze move upward as he played, until he was transfixed by the silhouette of the bird gliding in circles against the translucent sky. There was a redness like flame spreading across the heavens – but he could also see stars glittering far beyond in constellations that had not changed for millennia. Between the bright arms of *A'thlya* and the cradle of *Lan'y'ya* he knew that a starship moved, totally invisible to the eye from here, and meaningless in the face of the universe around it. But not meaningless to Sarek. He tracked the Enterprise's progress daily now. It held the only living remnant of his wife, and he would not let it slip from his sight again.

Written because someone on deviantArt translated the Portuguese song I'd used in a song meme, so I wrote a story based on her translation….

Universo ao Meu Redor

Tarde, já de manhã cedinho

Quando a nevoa toma conta da cidade

Quem pega no violão

Sou eu, sou eu

Pra cantar a novidade

Quantas lágrimas de orvalho na roseira

Todo mundo tem um canto de tristeza

Graças a Deus, um passarinho

Vem me acompanhar

Cantando bem baixinho

E eu já não me sinto só

Tão só, tão só

Com o universo ao meu redor

Universe around me

Late, already early morning

When the mist falls over the city

Who plays the guitar

It's me, it's me

To sing the news

How many dew tears on the rosebush

Everybody has a song of sadness

Thanks God, a little bird

It Joins me

Singing in a low tune

And I already don't feel so lonely

so lonely, so lonely

With the universe around me