• The fog clung to him, blanketing the night with cold. The ground underfoot was uneven and rocky. Thaddeus shivered, looking for shelter. That’s when he heard it. The piano, a few light and low notes sounding sweetly ahead. He ran toward the sound. The piano emerged from the mist, an old up-right, with grainy wood. He sat down at its bench, and his fingers danced, playing of their own accord a melody that was his soul, racing to tickle the high notes and low. He was the song and the song was him and it was beautiful in a terrifying sort of way. He played and played while hours passed, then days and months and years, all spent at that old piano in the foggy darkness. Then, suddenly, there was no certainty. His fingers stopped dancing and the fog lifted and it was daytime and he was but a man atop a hill. He reached out to touch the piano one last time, and awoke.

    Thaddeus Voss turned on his side, yanking the cover closer. He couldn’t remember much of his dream, except that he was making music like Before. It angered him that it was so, for he had sworn to himself to do so never again.