Chapter 8 · free to read
Evening one. They got eleven seconds in.
The only one of the four who had never argued about tempo was the one who had never been taught what tempo was called.
Two bars. For two bars of the arrangement, the piano gave the whole room away, and Arthit ran into it like a door left open.
Four evenings. One bar seventeen. It was not a set yet, but it was the first thing the four of them had made instead of survived.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.