You entered the old concert hall only because you heard the music.

He was playing alone. The violin cried and shimmered and soared. And when it stopped, he looked up. And smiled. Slowly. “I’ve been dreaming of someone,” he said. “You’re not her, are you?”

You shook your head.

He tilted his, still smiling. “That’s all right. You’ll do.” He offered his hand. Warm. Calloused.