The Last Lecture
The jazz was still playing when Henry Ashford found him. It drifted out of the Velvet Cellar like smoke—saxophone bending notes into shapes that didn't quite exist, piano keys clicking like teeth against the cold. Henry stood at the entrance and watched the man at the door. He was old now, impossibly old, wrapped in a coat that had been fashionable thirty years ago and hadn't been fashionable...
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