His gaze lingered over the vast expanse below him that was the city of London. Haunting tunes lilted from the strings of his violin: composing again. He watched lights in apartments and houses flicker on to gradually fill the darkness; to provide a barrier between civilized people and rugged unknown lands and creatures that could never be fully tamed no matter what mankind built and what theories they developed in their brains. He watched the specks of people go to and fro, going about their daily lives, living in a meager bubble, living with blinders on, having no idea where they were going or why; their ultimate goal being to earn paper bills they could exchange that would enable them to fulfill frivolous little actions that bring but momentary pleasure. He would never belong there.
Three months had passed. A few attempts had been made to leave this place, but he always found himself returning. It was as if he had been bound by an invisible tether. He knew where John was. He knew he was gone. But he would be here if he returned. Everyone thought him a ghost. The sound of a warbling violin coming from within the apartment always gave way to whispers. Someone had once burst through the doorway in an attempt to catch the ambiguous violinist, but he had already gone.
He often imagined how their reunion would take place. John would not be impressed; there would be no compliment of his cleverness-not that he wanted one. The cleverness was still with him of course, being an ever present burden more than anything else. It would never leave, but the sense seemed to have been numbed. The observations now echoed faintly, barely registering. John would stutter his name while wearing the most hurt of his recurring facial expressions. Then in all probability, he would punch him in the face as he had done once before. How he longed to be punched in the face! Heaven knows he deserved it.
It was doubtful there would ever be reconciliation. It was certain that things could never be the same as they once were. But if John ever decided to forgive him, he would be here, composing.