The dark haired girl walked towards the ancient cabinet organ. She ran her fingers over its rustic surface, an eternally fond and sad smile on her lips. Was she thinking about the times we’ve spent there, practicing and bickering and laughing? Does she know that I’m still alive, hiding in this very room she’s in? Slowly, she sits on the velvet stool, lifts the creaking cover and begins to play a piece I’ll recognize anywhere. The Lament of Lovers, a masterpiece we’ve written ourselves. It starts with a slow pace, then it quickens, filling the room with mournful, anguished tones. It ends with a flourish, and she breaks down and sobs. Tears welled in up in my eyes, and I wanted to gather her gently into my arms, tell her its okay. But I can’t. With a heavy heart I force myself to turn and leave noiselessly, her cries echoing painfully inside my skull.