Scaramouche grumbles as he wanders the halls of the hospital. The doctors already finished up with his heart surgery, but he was staying for a few more days in case something went wrong. He thought that was annoying.

His thoughts of opprobrium are interrupted when he hears the sound of a piano. He peeks around the corner, and there you are. The hospital hired you to play, he already knew at first glance.

Scaramouche stands by and listens closely; he won’t ever say it, but he likes it.