I mumble the title of the next song I play to him: "Sonata #14, movement 2. Beethoven." It's also known as the 'Moonlight Sonata', but that's too simple; nothing is ever simple.

He says nothing and I imagine that he nods his head, acknowledging my next song.

My hands ghost over the keys and I inhale slowly, my eyes begin to close as my fingers find the correct keys. The first notes and chords are slow but my tempo increases as I begin to feel the music.

My heart feels heavy as I hit the bass notes over and over again with my left hand. This steady line seems to reflect the mood right now, solemn and heavy.

I wonder what he feels as I sway along to the music, pressing my fingers into the keys for a deeper sound.

My eyes open and I listen to him breathe. He sits behind me on a sofa. The room was made just for me at my request to the Tenth, a lounging couch and a grand piano (for him and for me). This was from a different time though.

How strange it is to watch him change before my eyes; the killings making him harder on the inside. I have slowly watched the light in his eyes become a foreign, steely glint.

I grit my teeth together and begin to pound out the notes, losing all other feelings towards the piece.

Mechanically, I transition into the middle of another piece, Prelude #15 in D-flat, op. 15. Chopin. I fail to announce this to him.

I play for a moment and then he asks, "What song is this, Hayato?"

How he looks at me now is even different; I can feel his gaze boring into the back of my head.

"Hayato. Why did you stop playing?"

A dead silence fills the room until these words pass through my lips:

"Why did you stop loving me?"

I stare at the keys and watch bars of music run through my head, I play Tchaikovsky's "Pathetique" in my mind. My hands itch to crank out the notes and chords once more.

But instead I listen to him stir from the couch. The music stops in my head at the sound and I listen for his approach.

Instead I hear the door open. And then it closes.