Zoltán cleared his throat. He didn’t offer condolences. He just pressed the button for the next track. That was the rule of Ultrastar. You don’t stop. You sing.
Itt állok a sínek között. Nincs vonat, nincs menetrend. Csak a rozsda, ami összetart. (Here I stand between the tracks. No train, no schedule. Only the rust, that holds it all together.) Ultrastar Magyar Dalok
When Erzsébet finished, she wasn't smiling. She was crying. “He used to sing the harmony,” she whispered, handing the mic back. “He’s been dead twelve years.” Zoltán cleared his throat
Finally, it was Zoltán’s turn.
He didn’t look at the list. He scrolled to the bottom of the song menu, past the hits, past the nostalgia. He selected a track he’d never seen anyone choose. A B-side by a long-forgotten band from the 1990s. A song called “Rozsda” – Rust. That was the rule of Ultrastar