i-o-u-a-fall:

“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.