[ Unfortunately, when tomorrow night comes: Verso is nowhere to be seen. The off-season opera house is back to being as lonely a it always is. But the fallboard is lifted, the keys exposed, and if that wasn't enough of a sign that someone had still been by, there's a note, tucked neatly on the corner of the music rack. The paper is a bit worn, one edge uneven like its been torn from a journal. The ink is fresh enough that depending on how early Gustave comes by, it might even smudge under his fingers, the script neat, legible, a well-trained hand.
Just two words: ]
I'm sorry.
[ But a little more: in the corner, off-kilter enough to be clearly hand drawn: musical staves, a treble clef. A simple melody, just over two bars. Its based in something from the improvisation he'd played for Gustave: something bright that seems to almost get pulled under by some dour notes, but then pulls free again. ]
no subject
Just two words: ]
I'm sorry.
[ But a little more: in the corner, off-kilter enough to be clearly hand drawn: musical staves, a treble clef. A simple melody, just over two bars. Its based in something from the improvisation he'd played for Gustave: something bright that seems to almost get pulled under by some dour notes, but then pulls free again. ]