She hesitated before finally deciding to let the stylus run free on the vinyl that had not been removed from Helena's gramophone before Mrs. F had sent it to Denver.

Cold night air burst in the room, brushing against Myka's overheated skin when she opened the window. She sighed and smiled. The day had been unbearable, both because of the heat and because the heat had forced her to spend most of her time with Pete and Claudia in the living room, where the only electric fan was.

She shivered when a second draft hit the back of her neck, along with the first notes of what she identified as the Ghost Variations, by Schumann. Her smile turned into a fond expression. Helena was back from her day out.

Barefoot, she tiptoed to Helena's room. The door was wide open. The room was bathed in darkness, only broken by the soft light of the moon showing through the open window. The music was coming from a gramophone, playing quietly for its owner who was laying on the bed. Helena's skin was so pale that even the darkest night couldn't have concealed her nakedness. Myka stood transfixed. What was she to do now that she was in the doorway, in front of this eerie vision?

"Are you decent?" She asked, timidly, whereas she already knew the answer.

"That would be a first."

Helena stretched, like a cat in the sun. She didn't react to being walked in on in a rather intimate moment. But then again, Helena was not the kind to be ashamed of her own body.

"I thought the house was empty." She explained, taking her sweet time to cover her modesty with the thin cotton bed-sheet.

"No. I stayed behind. I wanted to check on you." Myka confessed. "I get that you didn't want to celebrate your birthday but you didn't have to hide all day, you know?"

"I suppose I should thank Wikipedia for that lack of intimacy. I'm alright. As you can see." Helena answered.

Myka didn't see a smile on Helena's face, and there was a clear lack of the usual spark that tainted every one of her sentences. To Myka, it was the clear sign the writer was not alright.
"You mean, despite the fact that you're listening to the theme and variations that Schumann wrote while dying miserably in an asylum?"

For a split second, it seemed that each and every one of Helena's muscles contracted in surprise. But when the old woman looked at Myka, the young agent sensed rather than saw she was amused at how she always seemed to know everything, and the pale body went limp again. The atmosphere was bearable then, and a hint of a smile ghosted on H.G.'s face. The ice was broken, Myka was in.