The young woman sat hunched over at the piano, softly pressing the ivory keys, playing the tune of her heart to the audience. Her hands traveled up and down the space that lay abroad in front of her, and once in a while she hummed along to the sound her fingers displayed. Her soft, straight hair was pulled into a smooth bun at the nape of her neck and the maroon dress she wore creased at her hips, where his touch she could still feel, burning into her skin, molding into her heart, and painting its pain across her face.

She'd been known to grimace when she played. Her lips were pulled taunt over her teeth, the space between her eyebrows was wrinkled, and her eyes were clenched tight.

The tune she played spoke of pain the way a tree speaks of life. The harmonies barely under toned the gentle melody; her playing was not customary, nor was it even pleasurable. Her viewers felt her pain almost as sharply as she did. They were drawn to it, they were called to it; they suffered in it; they reveled in it.

She let the voice of her heart speak to her fingers. Her fingers gave life to her feelings; the piano laid them bare for all to see.

She remembered the way he had loved. He was passionate. He loved like he would never love again.

But a dark alley in a dirty city had taken away his love. Stolen it.

The young woman at the piano played out her pain, wondering how in the company of so many she felt so alone.