Will she come back? I didn’t mean to upset her talking about Solomon. But the man is a heinous douche bag.I gaze out the window at the falling snow. It’s pretty, but I can’t shrug off feeling marooned. Still no sound from anywhere in the house. Is it always like this? Or is it just because she’s caring for Oscar? The silence reminds me of the dense sound of nothing that surrounds the dying—like when I’d taken care of Mom.I cross to the harp. She played like a pro. I can’t resist, so I reach out and pluck one of the strings. The note plumes, feather-light into the air. I glance toward the opening, wondering if she’ll appear.She does, her brows are creased. Where was she? Just outside the door, listening? Waiting? The unreadable look on her face has me tucking my hands into my front pockets. “Sorry. Never touched one before. How long have you played?”“Years.” She stays in the opening, hands clasped at her breast bone.“Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you, bringing up Rufus Solomon.”Her chest rises with a deep breath.
