About two years ago. And a month. And seven days. He started playing again lots.

[ Which is, of course: the last time Gustave saw his monsieur le pianiste, spilled out across the ground of a rooftop garden. ]

But he's stopped again, now. [ Woooo. :( Esquie leans in again, that painted mask hovering in front of Gustave's face. ] I think he misses your flowers, my florist friend.