Bezhad watched the stars fall. At first he couldn't understand what he was seeing. Or maybe it was more a refusal than a lack of comprehension. Maybe he knew full well what was happening. It's impossible to say for certain what one experiences in their final living moments.
He strummed his setar. Music rolled through the air, flowed from his balcony, danced through the street below. The cries and screams of the city faded to nothing. He had ears only for the song. A song he'd never played before and would never play again. He knew that, knew there would be a last song. He never suspected this would be how that song was played--as the sky fell. But ends are hard to plan and impossible to foresee.
A meteor punched through a cloud. He continued to play as he watched it approach. It burned with color. It tore a trail through the sky that looked like a wake of diamonds. He played faster. The music mingled with the city's lamentations. Men, women, and their children fell to their knees and shook their hands. They bowed their heads. They sobbed, they begged, they prayed. And all the while Bezhad played his setar. He played and the stars fell.
He would not leave the world like so many others. He would not leave in pain, in suffering, with tears and a scowl. He had lived with his music, and so he would die with it too. He would leave his mortal body playing a song never to be heard again. He and his music would flow beyond the here and now to there and then.
The star drop struck. The city was destroyed. No one felt anything. Now so much sound, now silence.