No one had ever heard the wind blow like this before. It rushed through the delicately carved holes of the sculpture, Driaz's final piece. Made of metal and glass and plastic and wood, it looked like some insect eaten tree, the haunted remains of a mighty forest. It was shot through with holes, some tiny, some massive, some which threatened the very structural integrity of the piece, especially as the wind was blowing through it.
No one really knew why Driaz's Will demanded that his piece be set up way back in the desert like this. It was certainly a striking thing, standing by itself, and the surrounding emptiness lent it a certain desolate beauty. The sun seemed to rise quickly, and all those holes, the glittering glass and metal catching the early rays sparkled, throwing tiny spectrums of color all around the otherwise boring sands.
Everyone around the piece, all of Driaz's friends, contemporaries, rivals, lovers, critics, and hangers-on, they all seemed to breathe with a sigh of understanding. Surely the master knew of this, surely this was his plan, and they all started packing up, other than a few who tried to capture the beauty of the tiny rainbows on film.
And when the sun started heating the ground unevenly, when the winds started, no one noticed at first. But no one had ever heard the wind blow like this before. The wind caught the edges of all the wholes, both tiny and small, split on the edges and blades of the uneven sculpture.
The wind blew and the sculpture sang, a discordant song, mournful and lonely. A thousand little harmonies came together, coalesced. The chaotic cacophony of the song pulled together, and started to sound familiar. The voice of Driaz from beyond the grave, his final words, his final testament. The sculpture spoke. Driaz spoke.