Charles sat on his sofa, examining the card. Actually, he was debating wheter to set it on fire or not.

He tossed it down onto the coffee table, and it landed on his various piles of art books that he never read, but kept for the sole purpose of display.

He trod grumpily over to the piano, and pulled aside the luminescent white curtains to let the soft sunlight fill the room. He rarely ever kept more than a dim lamp on, preserving the dark, moody atmosphere he liked to call his artist’s aviance.

He stood pondering over the smudges on the window, and turned around to face the room. His apartment was quite large, it had to be, or he could never fit his life into it.

He grazed his fingers over the smooth, black exterior of the baby grand piano, closing his eyes, trying to feel the music come out of it. He sat down at the bench, pulled out some fresh sheets to compose on, and began scribbling notes.

When he was finished, he titled the piece, Anne.