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2025. Somewhere above the clouds of noise and chaos, Helena walked.

The world had gone mad, again. The powerful screamed over podiums and puppeteered nations. The people? They paid the price. As always. Depression bloomed like unwanted flowers in the cracks of cities, and the art of connection had withered.

But not for Helena.

Fiery-haired, wrapped in a thick woolen cloak stitched with ancient Nordic symbols, she moved with a purpose. Not the kind of purpose governments talk about. A deeper one. A calling. Her boots were worn, her bag heavy, and her heart full of a single mission: to find those who still made it beat.

She had left it all behind, her apartment in France, her roots in Scandinavia, the comfort of friends who understood her only halfway. This wasn’t a runaway; it was a pilgrimage. A tribute. A last attempt to believe in joy, in music, in shared silences that speak louder than words.

Her first stop: the Carpathians.

Not because they were forgotten lands. On the contrary, the forests there still whispered in tongues older than time. But because someone awaited her. Someone who had never really been far.

Scorti.

Scortisoara, for formal introductions, was a spark wrapped in a human body. A Carpathian beauty with hair as dark as the midnight forest, and eyes that could make snow melt. She had a laugh like breaking glass and a passion for collecting rare sounds. Their friendship had been born online, across timelines and languages, grown strong in shared music files and 3 a.m. voice notes. But they had never met, until now.

Helena arrived one crisp morning by train. Steam hissed, birds scattered. The air smelled of pine, cinnamon, and something wild. Scorti's home perched above a winding trail, surrounded by absurdities: a dragon enclosure (no dragons, just an inside joke) and a tropical greenhouse where cinnamon trees swayed despite the frost.

As Helena climbed the final steps, a voice called out:

“You look exactly like I imagined. Except… more ginger.”

“And you,” Helena grinned, “have fewer horns than I expected.”

Laughter cracked the morning chill. They embraced, not like strangers, but like souls who had always known.

“You packed your entire life?” Scorti asked, pointing at the heavy backpack.

“Only the essentials,” Helena smirked. “Three dresses, ten emotions, one existential crisis.”

Over steaming cups of forest tea, they planned. The real journey was still ahead, across lands where music was scarce and laughter even rarer. Helena wanted to collect sounds. Trade melodies with forgotten peoples. Build something new with strangers who had nothing but time. Scorti? She wanted to feel the pulse of the world again.

“We should bring a third,” Helena said, chewing on a dried apple.

Scorti raised an eyebrow. “You’re pregnant?”

Helena choked. “God no. I meant someone useful. Like… a guy who plays five instruments, cooks, and doesn’t talk too much... Even though... this one talks hahaha”

Scorti smirked. “Unicorns don’t exist.”

“He’s just late,” Helena said. “He always is.”

And so they waited, but not passively. They sang into valleys, played ancient instruments by the fire, and let the wind decide their harmonies. They were preparing, not just for the road, but for the stories waiting to be discovered.

“We’ll leave once he arrives,” Helena said one night.

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then we’ll go anyway. Who says legends need to be three? But don't worry, he'll be there, and you know that...”

The next morning, a knock on the wooden door echoed like fate. The third had arrived. Late, of course. But on time for the adventure.

And the world? It still burned.

But somewhere, high in the Carpathians, three hearts beat louder than the noise.

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Far from the noise...

We dream...

Woke with the trees

Frost on my knees

Sky paints me blue

My heart knows you

Feet in the snow

But fire below

“Feel that? The mountain breathes.”

It’s whispering... travel.

We move, mmhh, we move...

Drums from the hills

Echo old thrills

Spices and smoke

Lullaby folk

My land’s alive

But I still strive

We rise, we rise

mmhh, eyes to the skies

We rise, we rise...

Far from the noise, far from the fire

Far from the cold metal empire

We walk, we sing, we share desire

We carry peace, not sharpened wire

Far from the fear, far from the hate

Far from the lies they fabricate

We move, we dance, we elevate

We breathe, we move, we elevate

I know these trees by name...

But I want to know the world

Ooh yes, new names, new songs...

Let’s leave before we grow too old

Let’s live, mmhh, let’s leave...

My roots are deep

But wings don’t sleep

I’ll show you sound

So let’s ignite

Our soul’s birthright

Far from the noise, far from the fire

Far from the cold metal empire

We walk, we sing, we share desire

We carry peace, not sharpened wire

Far from the fear, far from the hate

Far from the lies they fabricate

We move, we dance, we elevate

We breathe, we move, we recreate

Far from the noise... (far from the noise...)

We dream, we build, (we make a choice)

Far from the noise... (far from the fire...)

We sing... we sing... we never tire...

He’ll come...

and we’ll go...

mmhh... far... from... the noise...