She's got a big belt around her hips. It has a shiny buckle with PRADA on it, which is Italian for insecure.

There is a ghost here. A lonely, heartbroken spirit. The ghost of everything that could've been and never was.

They leave things behind sometimes, the guests. A bottle of scent. A crumpled handkerchief. A pearl button that fell off a dress and rolled under a bed. And sometimes they leave other sorts of things. Things you can't see. A sigh trapped in a corner. Memories tangled in the curtains. A sob fluttering against the windowpane like a bird that flew in and can't get back out. I can feel these things. They dart and crouch and whisper.

There is an advantage to be found in most everything that happens to you, even if it is not immediately apparent.

Because just for a few seconds, someone else hurts, too. For just a few seconds, I'm not alone.

I'm wishing he could see that music lives. Forever. That it's stronger than death. Stronger than time. And that its strength holds you together when nothing else can.

Never take what's offered, always ask for more.