The piano in the corner of The Velvet Note was an upright Yamaha from the seventies, out of tune and missing the felt padding on middle C, but Jules Calloway could make it sing if he sat down long enough. Tonight it sounded like a man drowning.
Jules did not drown. He had stopped drowning three years ago, on a battlefield in Flanders, when the gas came and his friend Tommy didn't make it to his mask and Jules stood there watching his lungs fill with fluid and felt nothing but a mild curiosity about the color of dying. He played on. His fingers moved across the keys with the mechanical precision of a man who had practiced something so...
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