“Tchaikovsky today, huh?”
“Violin Concerto, D-Major. One of your favourites.”
“You’re usually playing Bach.”
“I felt a change in pace wouldn’t disrupt the continuum.”
“It doesn’t really matter.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because you’re not playing at all.”
The song stops; the sociopath stills.
John blinks, and the ghost is gone without a trace; the song over without a flourish. Silence suddenly settles in the flat as though it had been waiting all along. He feels inconsolably lost without the mirage and the specter’s song.
After all, a fake, he sadly supposes, is better than nothing at all.