The Signal at Harlan House
ACT I The piano sounded like a heartbeat that had learned to lie. Eli Johnson sat at the upright in the corner of The Sapphire Lounge and played something that was almost a blues but was really a question. He was asking the room if it believed in things that couldn't be touched, and the room was answering in the only way it knew how: with gin on its breath, cigarette smoke in its lungs, and...
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