The dim light of the jazz bar made it hard to pick out individuals in the crowd. But honestly, that was no concern to most of the patrons, as they were soley fixated on the woman playing in the center of the room. Her hands slid across the keys of the piano like rainwater down a window on a stormy day. Her ease of posture and hint of a smile made her seem completely relaxed, yet slightly on guard. Her eyes were partly hidden behind a curtain of dark black hair, but if you were to see them, you’d be amazed at their clarity, their darkness.

She’d been playing for hours, not noticing the time go by, but glancing up every once in a while as if searching for someone.

He slipped in quietly, sitting down in a table in the corner. But she saw him anyways, she always did. And like always, her heart skipped a beat, though her fingers did not. That was the perfection of her music: she played with emotion, but not with her own emotions.