The Piano Player's Hands

He ran his finger over her cheek softly. She had cool skin, unaffected by the shrunken death the held her in its grasps. Her skin was smoother and as pale as the ivory keys on a piano.

"I'll bring some Shakespeare next time. I think you'll like those." He smiled, brushing a bit of hair from her face. He stood, letting his fingers trace just one more over her cheek. "Goodbye, Miss Mira."

With that, he left, with a bow of the head to the nurse, and to the other comatose patients.

* * *

The tickling touch of the sea brushed across Mira's face, making her open her eyes, and look around. An island, of black and white. How peculiar. Still, the breeze, and a stray leaf carressed her cheek softly. What was this?

The End

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