The melody drifted to him beneath the crack of the door. She was such a beautiful player. But she spent a lot of time too out of it to string the notes together.
Some people play better while high. Others, like Isabel, couldn't play at all.
On the rare occasion that she was sober enough to play; Peter sat at his door listening through the cracks. It was the only light in this dismal world.
He often dreamt that they would meet and she would play for him what he could not. He would imagine her soft fingers gently plucking out the notes to his favourite songs. Over and over. He would have her repeat them for him. He was sure she would oblige, for who would not oblige the devil himself?