He found himself in front of his piano. So he sought his solace in his music.

The fingers of his left hand were stiff and stunk of medicated cream, but he forced them to move. He needed to find the music, to find that place. A place of safety where his mind could hang suspended between the notes, held up by the rhythm and comforted by the melody.

But his injured fingers wouldn’t obey him. There was a spark of pain and he lost it. Just lost it. Everything hit him at once and he simply reacted in fury.

God, he hoped that piano stool had survived his weakness. Mom…

Fate broke that train of thought by placing a rock in just the wrong spot, causing him to stumble and knock the burn on his thigh. He gasped and grit his teeth.

No, just keep walking.

Walk, damn you.

And walk he did.

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