I know ya can't hear me, Lyla—well, I hope ya do, or that yer thinkin' 'bout me, a'least. I jus'—I jus' want ya to know I'm thinkin' 'bout you, okay? An' I hope yer doin' alright.

"When I was a young feller, I used to talk to the moon."

She had laughed at him at the time. Now the thought of it mocked her. Now, as she stared up at the full moon, she wished she had listened. She wished it would talk to her.

Take care of him, won't you? she whispered at last, feeling foolish. But the knowledge that he could be somewhere, listening, made her smile the first real smile in weeks.

Where are you playing tonight? Chicago? Los Angeles? London? I wish I could be in the crowd, hearing you. Seeing you. I wish… I wish we could have a second chance. I'm sorry, Louis.

Did ya get everything you wanted, Lyla? I hope ya did. Wish we could've done it together. But you deserve better, don'cha? Marshall was right. He's always right.

He wanted so badly to know for sure if everything he remembered was not part of a dream, long ago. Had there been a time when he talked to the moon, when it had talked back? Had there been a girl, with eyes like the lush fields of his native Ireland? He lived in a fog, playing because he didn't know what else to do. Maybe she would hear him. Maybe she would come.

We're playing in New York again. I'll wait by the Arch for you, okay? Don't be late.

There's so much to tell you. Every time I see the Arch I think of you. Did you ever go back? I sit there sometimes… But you've moved on by now. That's okay. I understand…

She rubbed her hands over her swelling abdomen and wanted to cry.

It's a boy, you know. I wish you could see the pictures. My father isn't happy, but this is the only piece of you I have left.

I've been tryin' to make it through. Singin' the songs, playin' the chords. But everything is diff'rent now. I've lost it, an' I can't get it back. I just can't do it anymore. The guys don't understand. They want me to stick around, but I can't play anymore. I can't… I'm sorry. I don' have music without you.

He threw things haphazardly into a duffle, about to grab his guitar and walk out the door when Marshall came bursting into the room, furious. "What do ya think yer doin', baby bro? Ya can't leave us. Where ya gonna go?"

He looked his brother straight in the eye, hating himself as he said it. "Anywhere but here."

It's getting harder to hear the music. What's the use? You won't hear me. Even if you did hear, why would you listen? I abandoned you. My father doesn't understand why, when I have this bright, glittering career, I can't practice anymore.

Nothing short of a miracle would change his determined plans to make her into the best cellist the world had ever seen. Well, that had backfired. Was not playing some sort of revenge? She wondered sometimes. No. To play music you had to have your heart in it, and she had left hers on that rooftop in March.

It just isn't the same as before.

I'm wastin' my time, aren't I? Up here on a roof talkin' to meself, like a loon, just like las' time. I know ya can't hear me, but I've got to try. G'bye, Lyla. I'll never forget you.

I've lost him. Our son. She looked beseechingly at the familiar pale orb outside her hospital window. I couldn't have made it without you here, anyway. But now I've lost everything: you, him, my music, my father...

She scoffed at herself. Foolish. Always foolish. Louis couldn't hear her. He wasn't talking back. She turned away.

And I've become a fool, who sits alone, talking to the moon.