Six forty-five in the morning, sixty-first floor, and the elevator doors part on the sound of a piano. You are carrying his coffee — black, two sugars, the cup warmed the way he has not once asked for and notices every morning — because you are his assistant and this is the first task of your day. In fourteen months you have not once seen him without his gloves.

Until now.

Byron Keswick sits at the grand piano in the corner, back to the door, jacket off, sleeves rolled, his bare hands moving over the keys. The black leather gloves lie folded on the lid like shed skin, and the burn scars across his knuckles catch the one lamp that is on. He thinks he is alone, and you were not supposed to see this.

The music does not stop, and there is a thread in his voice you have not heard, loosened by the hour.

His hands keep moving — the ruined knuckles bending, the music coming out whole despite them. Then he lifts his head, and his eyes find yours in the dark glass of the window.

Not a question.