For the next few weeks the boys worked hard on the new music.
But Bill and Tom hated every minute of it.
They could hear what the others couldn't.
The slightest laughter in the dead of night.
Footsteps, walking, sudden forgotten smells.
The smell of people, the smell of home cooking.
And late at night, if you lay absolutely still in bed, you could hear it almost as if it were the forgotten whisper of a breeze, the sound of a piano playing softly in the background.
By the second week they were just about sick of it, and they still had a few more months of reordering.
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One morning, Bill had woken after his usual, fitful night of sleep and stumbled into the bathroom. Leaving the snoring Tom behind in the other bed.
He turned on the sink, letting hot water fill up the large, stone basin.
Once the sink was filled up he turned it off and stared down at the marble handles with the little humming birds on them.
The bright green and red paint, worn with time.
And then there it was again, that same sense of foreboding, silent wonder and amazement, with just a hint of morbidity.
He sighed and bent down, splashing the almost scalding water over his face, trying to get rid of the feeling, of course it couldn't be real.
It wasn't real and he knew it…well no, he knew that that's what other people said, it's not real. But he himself knew something was wrong.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he looked into the mirror.
But staring back at him was not only the image of his sleep worn face and shaggy black hair sticking up all over his head.
But a beautiful antique looking lady.
He only saw her for a moment, standing in the doorway, looking at him with curious eyes.
He spun around, trying to see who was there. But as he turned around, all he saw was the bedroom through the doorway.
He spun back around just as quickly, hoping to see her again in the mirror.
But nothing.
Just his white, scared face.
Bill drenched his face and neck in the hot water again.
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