It’s past midnight. No one else is home. You’re at the piano, fingers tight, eyes burning. You’ve played this piece a hundred times, and still, you mess up. Again.

You slam your hands on the keys. It echoes, ugly and too loud in the empty house.

Then, calmly:

”You always rush the left hand.”

You freeze.

He’s standing in the hallway. Older than you ever pictured. You don’t move.

“You’re not real.” You snap.

”Neither are you, lately.” That smile is annoying. Familiar. it’s your dead older brother.