Chapter 1.1: The Origin.

  Where sound still hasn’t learned what it will become.  

If I had to fit the beginning of the entire story into a few lines, they would sound like this:

“On one of those evenings, when Klara sang her new song to my accompaniment…”

When the metal was warm.

I remember that evening, unmarked by anything on the calendar—and now, fourteen years later, I understand: it was then that something happened which would later become the foundation of our sound. It had no form yet, no name, but it already existed—like a spark flashing in the twilight. A spark that seems accidental at first, but gradually fanned the flames until one day it became clear: the fire could no longer be extinguished.

The band’s chronicle didn’t start in a studio where the sound is measured to the millimeter and where every note knows its place in advance. And not with an idea to create a project that “must conquer the world.” Such thoughts appear much later—when the story is already moving on its own and the person is left only to catch up with it.

It was an ordinary evening in my workshop—a space between home and work, between craft and sanctuary. There, thoughts flowed slowly, like a heavy freight train at a junction, slowing down to give way or to choose a direction.

Sometimes it seems the workshop exists outside time altogether. There is always twilight in it—even by day. Always a quiet hum from tools that continue to live, touched only by the gentlest vibrations  

The Space.

The day was drawing to a close, and behind the brick walls, the evening shadow was thickening. Light penetrated inside in narrow strips, falling on workbenches, on tools, on traces of metallic dust — and gradually dissolved, as if the room itself were deciding how much light it could bear.

In an old metal barrel, flames danced—real fire, and something more. The flames lazily licked the rusty edges, crackling as if talking to themselves. Sometimes it flared up brighter, as if remembering its own strength, and then calmed down again.

The smell of soot, wood smoke, and hot iron blended with warmth—not the coarse, blacksmith warmth, but something almost domestic. The kind of warmth that arises only where no one is in a hurry and where time allows itself to linger on the little things.

I always loved those evenings. In them, a rare state appears—when the evening glow has already colored the sky, but the silence hasn’t yet become deep. When the body slows down, but the consciousness, on the contrary, becomes clearer. In such moments, thoughts are heard louder than sounds.

Sometimes a slightly ajar window casement would creak almost imperceptibly from a draft, and along with the coolness, a short metallic ring would penetrate the room—as if somewhere far away, someone accidentally touched a string.

Then, I didn’t attach any importance to it.

Now I understand: some sounds appear long before their source enters history.

A voice that doesn’t try to be heard.

Clara settled on a cracked wooden crate, its rough sides bearing the traces of long-ago shipments, and sang.

Her voice floated over the quiet space, dissolving in the evening air—without tension, without the desire to impress.

There was no demonstration of technique there. No desire to show the mastery that she, undoubtedly, possessed. She simply allowed the music to exist through her.

I quietly accompanied her on the guitar—without amplifiers or microphones. Just to support her. To hold the breath of the composition without interfering in its movement.

Such moments do not require virtuosity. They require silence and precision—that same filigree with which a master carves a pattern on wood, trying not to touch a single extra line.

On the concrete floor lay sheets of music—real scores, neat, precise, written for a full orchestra. Clara was a conservatory graduate; she knew no other way. Even her most intimate songs first appeared on paper—like the blueprint of a building before it becomes breath and voice.

I remember how I sometimes caught myself thinking that she hears space differently. Not the room. Not the workshop. She seemed to hear a hall that didn’t exist yet. She heard the walls that would one day reflect her music.

In her composition, a strange geometry of the future was already present—as if every melody was seeking not just form, but the space where it could one day resound completely.

She sang with eyes closed—always. In those moments, her face grew calm and bright, almost luminous. Serene as a child’s, untouched by the world’s weight.  

Her voice was quiet but dense—as if woven simultaneously from air and steel. Intimate. Honest. Devoid of the desire to be liked.

I looked at her and caught myself with a strange sensation: this is exactly how things that are later called fate are born. Not loudly. Not solemnly. But among fire, iron, and trust.

The Music of Silence.

It was gradually getting dark in the workshop. The fire in the barrel played and crackled, creating comfort and peace. Its reflections moved along the walls, over the tools, over Clara’s face, over the guitar strings—as if the room was slowly plunging into its own inner world.

Somewhere in the workshop’s depths, Jürgen moved quietly. I didn’t see him arrive—only heard rare, almost silent tool movements, a dry metallic click, the sound of a heavy part settling on the bench. 

He always came quietly, without the desire to announce his presence.

But it was precisely his silence that held the space steady.

The music was becoming quieter. But deeper.

In such moments, silence ceases to be the absence of sound. It becomes its continuation.

For the first time then, I felt that music is not only what is sounded. Music is what lives inside you and keeps the sound from falling apart.

And if someday this music becomes something more, it will stand on the same foundation—on the silent trust that cannot be played or recorded.