A grand piano stood and reposed upon the familiar chambers upholding a single mattress; and giving light to the figure of a woman lying softly against the canopy was the midnight moon—ever so present, ever unchanging. The entire room still carried the same atmosphere: like that of a cold, blue music.
He was playing yet another piece of music, dark hair glistening against the moonlight—playing a song as a tribute to the lady bathing in white roses. The woman whose fire was her red strands spreading across the sheets, and snow was her skin, and flowers are her lips. She was asleep, but cold and unmoving still. Like a hollow doll, beautiful yet vacant. He played the music over and over again, sounding sadder and crestfallen at every passing second.
