He placed his hands on the keys. He didn't strike them; he let them sink.
Alexander was a dreamer with hands too large for his frail frame, a young composer trying to capture the vast, aching expanse of the Russian soul. He had spent months laboring over his Second Sonata. The first movement had been a tempest of fury and defiance, a reflection of his struggle against poverty and the dismissive scoffs of the Conservatory professors. But tonight, the storm had passed. Outside his window, the snow fell in heavy, silent flakes, muting the chaos of the city. Sonata No. 2 in G Minor, Op. 6: II. Larghetto
As Alexander played, the music pulled a memory from the shadows. He placed his hands on the keys