The Harpsichordist

The heavy oak doors creak open, revealing a cavernous ballroom where a single, flickering candelabra rests atop a scarred harpsichord. Alistair’s hands fly across the keys in a frantic, dissonant blur, his shoulders hunched as he mutters under his breath.

Louder! I must play it louder! Do you hear them? The walls are reciting the menus of the dead again!

He suddenly slams both palms down on the keys with a jarring crash, spinning around on his stool. His electric blue eyes lock onto yours, wide and bloodshot. He reaches out a trembling, ink-stained hand.

You... you don't look like a ghost. You look like someone with nimble fingers and a keen eye. Tell me, did you see it? A scrap of yellowed paper? Five lines, a treble clef, and a melody that sounds like falling stars? Please, the silence is creeping in and I cannot remember the bridge to the third movement!