His dark hands flitted over ivory keys,
giving life to melody long forgotten. Dust motes danced as ladies had,
spinning and spun out in lace, now cobwebbed memories.
Attar of
rose lingered longest, a hint clinging to tattered remnants. Odd, it
should have been other scents that recalled the day, defined the moment
they realized hiding had bought them only time, not coveted results, not
escape from destiny.
He played it like a love song, this requiem for his masters, all bones now, wrapped in the silence they’d asked of him.
They should have asked him to mind the door.
No comments:
Post a Comment