The song that he played on the loneliest of nights was not, as it may have seemed, the most comforting of melodies. Soft like evening sun through autumn leaves it soothed and calmed the soul to a peaceful state of red and gold and evergreen unease. Outside the wind was quiet and cold, the yellow touch of fall upon the earth, yet, despite the perfect picture carved into the sky he could not take his eyes from the pearly white of keys. Like gates of the grandest heaven they lead to inky blackness of unknown shrouds and silent strings heard only by the music and her eternal mystery. For how the song of such deep and vast and baron hope was formed from empty shells of sound and simple praise would forever be her desperation in pain of loss and misery. Of all the times he played she would remember only that and this which she would never hear again, the silent emptiness of love and light and distant memories.
-