The weather was lousy. The morning was so dark it seemed like nighttime. Sean had to almost feel his way to the piano. He felt depressed for some reason, and his fingers found themselves sliding over Chopin's dreams, his nocturnes, and he was suddenly playing, with meaning, Chopin's Etude Number Three, the one someone had put words to... Dreaming, crying words. How he felt today...

"In my dreams our lips are blending, will this dream be never-ending... Will this memory haunt me till I die?"

Light flooded the room. Viggo stood in the doorway, wearing only his loving smile.