[A couple of inkspots appear on the page, as if the owner of the journal is pondering what to write. Then a short pause, and it switches over to voice. Or perhaps "voice." After a minute of nothing but the wind and the faint sound of the river, the entry is cut off by the sound of the journal closing
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Are you down at the lake?
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Any of what?
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I'm at the river.
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...and go hunting for a Sigmund.]
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...actually, she looks faintly disappointed that he isn't in the river.]
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Are you making something?
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A flute.
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And there's always the time-honoured way of finding out, she supposes. Continuing on to sit down beside Sigmund, eyes now carefully focused on the flute.]
Did you lose your old one?
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He turns his head a bit to look at her with tired, half closed eyes, and then tests the note again. Not near ear-splitting anymore, but not quite in tune, either. He stares at it, and then goes on to work on the next one.]
I didn't have one.
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Who did?
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