The Last Dance at the Halo
I. The piano in the back room of the Halo sounded like rain on a tin roof—steady, insistent, and carrying a sadness that had no name. Daisy Worthington heard it from the hallway, through the half-open door, and stopped walking the way a person stops walking when they hear their name called in a language they thought was dead. She pushed the door open. The room was small, smoke-filled, and lit...
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