She only heard fragments of the conversation late at night.

“Joe…”

“…Focus On Banjos…”

“…new strings…”

The words drifted across the darkened room from the glow of the computer screen. Strange modern words mixed with old familiar ones. Susannah did not understand websites. Perhaps they were places where stories gathered. Places where forgotten things waited to be remembered.

More than once, the man paused while passing through the room and looked toward the corner.

Not at the skis.

At her.

Once, he even rested a hand lightly against her neck before moving on.

The touch lasted only a second.

But instruments measure time differently than people do.

For Susannah, it felt enormous.

Still, she did not allow herself hope.

Hope was dangerous for instruments.

Hope led to closets.

So she remained very still between the silent skis, listening to the late-night murmur of keys tapping softly in the dark.

“Joe…”

“…lesson…”

“…playing again…”

Outside, winter pressed quietly against the windows. Inside, the room had begun to change in ways Susannah could not yet understand.

And somewhere deep within her aging wood and sleeping strings, something long silent listened carefully for the sound of footsteps stopping at the corner once more.