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The sun began to sink below the horizon, ending its daily journey with a silent nod to the rising moon. Autumn colors paint the sky vermilion and orange; the day's last symphony before the monochrome night's requiem. Twilight brings closing to the world, but breathes a secret beauty into it; a fleeting waltz of light and darkness.

The Sunset Café took its name from this spectacle, and rightfully so; it faced the horizon and gave audience to the sun's last moments. Artists, writers, musicians and romantics; all took the twilight muses as their lovers, their inspiration, at the Sunset Café.

Rion was among these lucid dreamers, those whose eyes still burnt with the dim fire of sunset. A quiet man whose entire vocabulary could be condensed to a "yes" and a "no." Always in the furthest corner of the café, he painted. People, tables, the skyline of the city behind the café, anything. Although filled with the twilight, Rion never painted the sunset.

Rion was well known amongst the artists of the café. Often praised for the beautiful pictures he painted, he never cared. He had many admirers, but very few friends. The one person who Rion had was his best friend Richie. A truer brother than those bound by blood, Richie stuck with Rion through everything: Always watching Rion's quiet back.

Richie was an artist as well. His words, his brush; his thoughts, his paint. His poetry transcended writing, reaching the masterpieces of the Sistine Chapel and the Mona Lisa. Stories of his poetry bringing tears to even the most hardened souls whispered around the café. His writing stole the hearts of lovers and the eyes of admirers. Richie had more than a way with words; he ruled them as their king.
On Rion's canvas was family, a happy family. A mother, a father; so very happy together. There was a little boy between them, his smile like Christmas Morning. Rion's strokes were delicate, his brush an extension of his body, almost loving. The sunset lit his eyes.
"Rion…"

The Sunset was coming to a close.

"Yes?"

The orange turned to fire.

"It wasn't your fault, Rion."

The vermilion turned to blood.

"No."

Rion brushed faster, his hands quivering.

"Your parents wouldn't want you like this."

The light started to fade away.

"No."

The moon intertwined with the sun.

"You can't keep…"

"No!"
The sun was fully below the horizon.
The moon burnt into Rion's eyes, and Richie stood stunned at Rion. Richie's eyes shifted to the paint brush that now lay on the floor, the paint dripping off of it like bloody tears. Rion never lost the twilight in his eyes, never dropped his brush. The painting was finished now; the family now crying tears of orange and vermilion, fire and blood.

"Rion," Richie spoke like a feather, "I can't even begin to…"

"No," spoke Rion, the air of indifference back, "No." And with a silent return to composure, he got up and left Richie and the painting. Those still entranced by the sight of the setting sun filled the seats of the Sunset Café, muses breathing stories, poems, and art, into the minds of their best lovers. Richie stood amongst all those people, the portrait of Rion's family in front of him.

The sky was dark, the burning luminance of the day overtaken by the cold embrace of the night. The diamonds of the night sparkled in the sky, as bright here as they were in untouched dreams. That was the beauty of this city, the darkest night and the brightest stars refused to be shut out by the radiance of the skyline. The city brought unwanted light to the night, but in its crude beauty brought even more magnificence to it. The fleeting waltz of twilight found refuge in the tango of the city and the night.

Rion walked through the busy night, letting the darkness carry away his thoughts. He kept his head down, eyes on the pavement. The concrete shimmered dimly, the stars reflecting their light upon it. Rion kept his focus on the glimmering pathway, hoping that the concrete could absorb his emotions like it did with the light of the stars.

The sounds of the city breathed in and out of Rion's ears: The wind spiraling around the skyscrapers, the waves of cars stopping and starting, the voices of lovers as they journey to wherever. Rion took them all in like a drug and numbed himself.

Rion dragged his body to a corner where it seemed the city's opera came to its climax. The noise all condensed into one roar and swarmed upon that corner. It robbed Rion of thought, and for him that was a gift. On that corner, Rion found a sanctuary from himself.

At the corner, in Rion's sanctuary sat a single man – his only companion, his guitar. His fingers strumming out honey, his voice singing velvet. The man didn't make music; it came out of him as natural as a person draws breath. He played for no one, it seemed, but for the night itself.

The man played anything, from classical masterpieces to short love songs. He didn't care if the song didn't suit the time or the place. Rion heard someone ask, "Isn't it the wrong season for that?" to which the man replied, "Who cares? It's beautiful!" To him, the sonorous beauty of the songs he played was enough. There wasn't another reason that mattered.

Rion stood listening to the music, the sound of the man's heart. With every song that the man played, Rion lost more and more of the numbness that the night gave him. His eyes were still transfixed on the ground, but now his ears were possessed by something other than noise. Not music, but beauty.

Rion spent hours listening, letting the music calm him. The man, still entranced by the sound of his own music, hardly noticed him. A new song began. Rion's eyes were lifted from the ground by the song and he felt each note beat against his head.

Memories of his mother flooded into his mind, the dam he built to suppress the thoughts obliterated. The song that the man was playing was his mother's favorite song. It was the song that she used to send him to sleep as a child, the song that comforted him and gave him solace. Her voice had a magical effect on Rion, and when she sang that song – All the troubles of the world ended.

The song sank into his mind, spreading throughout his entire being. The numbness that the night presented was fully gone now, but in its stead was a pain that infected his entire soul. His mother took the place of the man with the guitar, he voice replacing his. And with her song, she made the entire world exit Rion's eyes.

"No," Rion whispered to his mother, "No…"

Rion ran away from the corner; away from the music, the beauty, his mother. He ran fast and far, but he could not escape the song. His mother's voice haunted him, suffocated him, embraced him. Rion ran and ran, each step bringing a new memory. One step. Her voice. Two steps. Her eyes. Three steps, four steps, ten steps. Her grave. Fifty steps, a hundred steps, two hundred steps. Rion's door.

As he put his hand on the doorknob, Rion sank onto the ground – His legs too weak, his heart too shaken. Rion still heard his mother singing. Her song brought sleep to him once again. He whispered one last thing, one last fragment of the song with her:

"Silent Night, Holy Night…"