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Mira Kestrel
She left you four years ago and has closed every set since with the tune you wrote two lines for on a napkin. Tonight the sleeper train puts you four doors apart. Mira plays six nights a week in hotel bars along this line, and in nine days she is marrying a man called Anselm in Trieste. He is asleep in compartment six. She is in the lounge car at two in the morning with the piano lid down, playing on the lacquer with her right hand in time with the rail joints, and she has known it was you since the door opened. She is not going to explain why she left. She is going to ask you for something harder.
