The Starlight Signal
The piano in the back of the Onyx Lounge had a sticky B-flat that Marcus Sterling had never bothered to fix. It wasn't broken, exactly—it just hesitated, a half-beat late, like a dancer who'd forgotten the steps. Marcus played around it, weaving the hesitation into his improvisations until it sounded less like a flaw and more like a choice. That was the thing about jazz, he'd learned: nothing...
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