MICHAELAI hear him at two in the morning.Not the song. Something else.. searching, unresolved, the sound of a man working through something he cannot find the end of. I lie on my silk sheets and listen to the dissonance travel through the penthouse walls and I think about the open door I left behind me and the open door at the end of the east wing.I get up.The corridor is dark and quiet. The piano room light is on, warm and amber through the gap. I push the door open and cross to the sofa against the wall and sit down without speaking.He keeps playing.He does not look at me. He does not stop or adjust. He just plays, his back to me, his hands moving through the dissonance, searching for something in it.I pull my knees up to my chest and listen.After a while the searching changes. The dissonance begins to find itself.. not resolving into something pretty, just settling, the way churned water settles when you stop disturbing it. He plays until the last note fades and then his ha
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