Marcus Sterling played the piano like a man trying to remember a dream he knew was slipping away.
The keys of the upright in the back room of the Harlem club responded to his touch with a warmth that surprised him, as if the instrument itself wanted to cooperate. Outside, the April rain drummed against the windowpane in rhythms that no composer had ever notated. "You're playing it slow tonight," said the bartender, wiping a glass that was already clean. Marcus smiled without looking up....
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