He went to the roof.
It was breezy and chill, his hair swept back from his face as he stood by the balustrade, the shock of cold air exploring round his neck. An almost-clear night, the stars there, but only the brightest hinting at their real patterns through the drifts of thin, high cloud.
It would blaze away in the morning, when the sun came.
Sometimes he wondered about destiny. Even before he'd shot a man, before anyone had wanted to kill him, he'd had too many dreams that took an unexpected shift to the violent and disturbing. And he wondered if he had ever had a chance to be anything different.
He didn't like to think he'd always been doomed to this. But he didn't like to believe it had all been his choice either.
The cold of the stone crept into his skin as he sat, seeping fast through his clothes while his fingers slid over the strings. The wood held the warmth of the house where it rested against him, the taut-shivering wires chilling faster as the air sucked past them. He played low, soft; gentle movements of his hands, letting the wind rip the notes away and twist them into nothing within metres, most of the town dark and unmoving below.
The ticking had died with the knowledge, its underlying thrum exposed in the low and steady glow of old embers, banked and waiting; and the music ran with it, formed its patterns around it.
The notes drifted easily, simple tunes of habit flawless and light, added complexities feeding from instinct to wind their way through the basic melodies, his voice humming another layer mellow over them. It was almost odd the way it flowed, with everything he knew and more he suspected. He supposed that little would really surprise him now, when his world had already twisted to the point where he lived with Sands because he wanted to.
So his life would change again, and he'd been dragged down and then spat back out onto the rocks so often by those same tides that it didn't seem to matter.
He wondered when he'd actually made the decision, because it wasn't a choice now.
His fingers moved smooth and unhurried, living with the sounds instead of the tension for the first time in weeks. Leaves rustled beneath the notes, the wind twining both together as it brushed over him, sweeping his hair past his eyes and the smell of smoke and cigarettes with it.
He played until the chill dragged its bullet-echo through his hand and his fingers refused to curl to the strings.