Before either of them had formed a full sentence they would sit on opposite ends of the piano stool, their noses just reaching the grooves of the keys, echoing one another's notes.

    The piano was an antique, flushed and losing its maple hue, handed down from Laurie's mother who had passed just weeks before the twins were born. As far as Laurie and John could trace it back, this was the only musician in their bloodline, and she had given up playing years prior to dying. It stood against a wall, unused, quiet as a coffin, until the afternoon when the twins' jumbled music rang throughout the house.

    When the twins were making duets out of commercial jingles as adolescents, their fingers still smaller than the black keys, Laurie and John would loom over them in astonishment, casting each other sidelong smiles.

    The Leeds hired a piano instructor, and Carrie and Casey were reading music before they had learned long division. The instructor was a dark, lanky man who seemed to always leave the house after a lesson looking disconcerted. He pulled the parents aside one day, a crooked frown scribbled on his gaunt face, and he dropped down onto one knee.

    “With all due respect, you folks seem like good parents, but I must... I must plead with you not to traumatize these kids or use their genius toward your own ends. I'm sorry. What you've got are prodigal children. I'm doing my part, but I have to ask you to do yours: Let them grow into the bards they are, and let the word hear their music. I beg you.”

    And he slipped out the door backwards, bowing, his tophat tilted on an open palm.

    His strange presence became a fixture in the Leeds household, and by the time the kids were young preteens and playing duet renditions of Bethooven, he had twinges of gray hair on his temples. His eccentricity seemed to grow with the kids' talent.

    “Yes! Indeed!” his voice would careen from the den where the piano stood, the young twins huddled over the piano in a trance, their fingers gliding across the keys effortlessly.

**

    The twins grew into airy, eccentric youths with a profound introversion. Laurie would encourage them to bring friends home from school, but they never would; shedding their backpacks, they would race into the den and fill the house with the sound of music. The instructor seemed to be their only friend, and the parents began to grow an aversion to him. They blamed the twins' awkward social skills and disinterest in other kids their age on him. The more he bowed out of the door with his tophat, the more polished the music of the twins became and the more askance the parents would look at him.

    At seventeen, the twins were in talks with a record executive who would come by the house and shake the parents' hand with a wide, toothy smile. The kids had developed a musical identity, a sort of wistful folk sound with vocal harmonization and heavy-handed string instrumentation, and the executive pored over how soon they would have a record after stepping into his studio.

    At the insistence of Casey, Carrie and the instructor, they were to be home schooled for their last year of high school. This allowed for more time in the den, which had been converted into a makeshift musical studio with a drum set in the corner and violins hanging from the wall.

    When homeschooling started, the instructor spent more time around the twins, coaching them in hushed tones about recording studios, visibly shaken by the prospect of his fledglings going off to record music on their own. Laurie and John were uncomfortable with his increasing presence around the house, and a week in to the year they found a way to oust him from their kids' lives.

    John searched their room one day and, as expected, found drug paraphernalia. The kids were scolded, the den was locked for a week, and the instructor was fired and ordered to stay away from the twins.

    By the seventh day, the twins had fashioned a trash can lid with guitar strings and Carrie played it like a harp while Casey beat on the underside of the bin, their voices ringing in harmony like drunken, drifting songbirds.

    The record executive was to come to the house to finalize the deal on the day the den was to be reopened. It was a September evening with slanted rainfall pressed against a bruised sky. The family loaded into John's sedan to head to a local bar to celebrate over dinner and drinks.

    The last thing Casey remembered seeing was Carrie's forehead pressed against the windowpane, her humming making a small spot of fog on the glass. There was a sudden thrust, a swirling of blacks and grays, and Casey woke up days later in a hospital bed, distraught, his head murky and prickled with pain.

    A stocky, wiry-haired man stood at the foot of Casey's bed and rested a hand on his leg cast with a crooked frown. He spoke slowly and sincerely, his voice hushed and thick, but all Casey would remember was the emptiness rising like bile to his throat, the anger flushing his veins.

    He prayed for death and dreamt he was singing with Carrie in a dusty, sun-washed den, the ceiling a powdery, cloudless sky. The dreams would be his only reprieve, though, for his body was stubbornly alive and he was trapped in his new world of without.

Chapter 2

    He was sent back to an empty home a month later with a permanent stagger, a mahogany cane, and the company of a downcast, remiss Unlce Max. Casey had only met Max once before, in childhood, and as his closest living kin, guardianship had been passed onto him. Max was a beefy, unimaginative man, and Casey could see the resentment in his eyes from the moment he was put in his custody.

    Max was a widower whose only son had recently left the house. There was nothing pertinent calling him back home, but Casey could sense that he had his own loneliness to attend to.

    “Hey, kid, it's only three months from now until you're eighteen and your own guardian,” he said on his third night in the house, leaning a forearm against the doorway to the den. “And I... I have to get back to work. I'd like to get back home, back to my life.”

    Casey slid his thin fingers along the neck of a ukulele. “It's--”

    “Look, kid, I'm... I'm sorry.” He scratched his ear and cast his gaze away from Casey. “This isn't my battle. I have nothing to offer you. I'm no grief counselor, and I'm hardly even a good father. I hadn't even spoken to John in years before the accident. I hardly think my presence will help anything.”

     “Don't feel obligated. I've got doctors who will be a burden enough. Lawyers will be around. The neighbors-- Mrs. Dorsett brought enough food over to last the month. Go on. It's fine.”

    Max shuffled into the den and took Casey into a one-armed hug, accidentally striking the high-hat on the drum set in his reach. He smiled meekly and started tapping a slow beat on the cymbal.

    “Anyway, kid, you know where to find me.”

    Casey sat, huddled, listening to the silence his uncle left in his wake as the front door carefully shut behind him.

***

    Dr. Azzonio came by the house every other day for the next few months, going through the routine knee exercises with a plump, red smile. Casey couldn't tell whether he was always this jovial or if was hoping the mood would be contagious.

    He liked him either way. His liveliness was a welcome contrast to Casey's mood, which was vacant and pensive.

    Casey told him one day, astonished at his own honesty, how he had blown through his painkiller prescription. Dr. Azzonio waved a hand at the air in dismissal and pulled a pen from his coat pocket, scribbling on a piece of paper. “Not a problem,” he said, and the next time he was by, he asked, “did we resupply the candy?”

***

    Casey's only other visitor, aside from the occasional drop-in from Mrs. Dorsett, was the therapist who had taken on his case at the hospital. Dr. Arbors was a tall, frail woman who spoke in a whisper. She was insistent on going through Casey's memories of Carrie and his parents, dissecting both the happy and sad ones, “confronting so as to let go.”

    Examination and continuing therapy was ordered at the hospital by Uncle Max, his temporary legal guardian, and he was counting down the days until he could be rid of her services. Casey was uncomfortable enough divulging any sort of feelings in the first place, and he never was at ease with Dr. Arbors. They would sit on opposite ends of the kitchen table and he would hunch, downcast, always toying with a shoelace or some other object, rarely meeting her eyes.

    In the week leading up to his birthday he feigned a newfound peace and acceptance of the tragedy he wore, and he assured her he would get along without further treatment. Dr. Arbors protested in her strange animation, cupping Casey's hand in hers, her eyes welling. Her arms would sail across the air like a conductor's as she plead with him. Her last words for him were “I'll be praying for you,” and she stumbled on the doorstep on her way out. She left a small note on the kitchen table that read, “keep your thoughts in the place where your music comes from. If demons threaten to silence the song, call for help. Stay strange. Mary Arbors.”

***

    Casey planned on sleeping most of his birthday away and stepping into the den for the first time since his return to the empty house. He had come to recognize a nagging feeling in his mind, one that was present during his hospital stay but lost in the muck: artlessness, neglect of the catharsis that playing music brought him. Since the accident he found himself vacantly strumming, holding his instruments like they were vile, wanting to sing but finding nothing more than a hum. The shattered pieces of his ukulele, whose two-of-a-kind match was silent and slung on the den wall, were still strewn on the kitchen floor from days prior.

    A heavy knock startled Casey from his sleep. He pulled a blanket over his head and let out a grunt, wishing whoever it was away, but the knocks became louder and more insistent. He slowly rose from bed, thumbing the sleep in his eyes. He gazed at the clock: one in the afternoon.

    “Fuck,” he muttered, and he limped to the door, his cane left leaning on the bed. He gazed through the side window and saw Tony Merchant, the record executive, peering through the window on the other side. He backed away tentatively, thinking of the warmth of his parents' bed, but Merchant caught a glimpse of him.

    “Hey, there he is. Casey. Let me in, kid. I'm not biting today.” He tapped the windowpane like he was trying to rouse fish in a fish tank.

    Casey muttered under his breath and opened the door, turning away before Merchant could catch a glimpse of him. “Mr. Merchant,” he yawned, and he started up the steps with his good leg, using the rail and the wall for support.

    “Hey, I'll wait. Go grab what you need. I'll just make myself at home if you don't mind,” and he stepped toward the kitchen, his strides long and off kilter.

    Casey fetched his cane and lit a cigarette in the bedroom. He made his way to the kitchen slowly, taking long drags from his cigarette without removing it from the corner of his mouth.

    Tony backed out of his chair quickly when Casey came through the overhang in the kitchen, grabbing the edge of the table to keep from falling. He was a short, egg-shaped man, with a tuft of red hair combed over his balding head.

    He locked his hands together and bowed before Casey. “Kid, I just can't imagine.”

    “I shouldn't hope you'd try to,” he replied, backing into the chair across Tony.

    “Look, I... I was real fortunate to get to know your parents before the accident,” he said, glancing around the bedraggled kitchen. “They were good folks. And your sister,” he heaved a sigh, backing into his chair, “what a talent. What an unfortunate loss. When I think of all the musical geniuses who left the world too early...”

    “Look, Mr. Merchant, I don't mean to be rude, but--”

    “Kid, I know it's tough being the sole survivor, but someone's gotta steer the ship wreckage back to the bay, you know? Otherwise it's all lost, that treasure the parted worked so hard to get and all. You know?”

    Casey chuckled and stubbed the cigarette out on the tabletop. “The treasure.”

    “Okay. Bad analogy maybe. You get the idea, though. Kid-- let me just say. It's a heavy burden you're bearing. I feel for you. But it's strange how these things seem to just make sense, you know, in the end. You can reach deep inside yourself and find something you otherwise never would have found. You know, what didn't kill you will make you stronger.”

    Casey let out a quiet “uh-huh” and lit another cigarette, leaned back in his chair.

    “You've had a few months to dwell. I'm glad to see you intact,” he said, wiping his brow with a sudden nervous flash of red spreading on his cheeks. “Have you asked god why? You know, asked him why this, why you?”

    “My idea of god is more along the lines of a cranky librarian... wish a lisp, you know, and his crate of books to be restocked is never empty. I wouldn't impose on that guy.”

    “Right,” said Tony, choking down a laugh. He cast a wary gaze at Casey, and for a moment the silence was only broken by the sound of Casey's burning cigarette tip, like a small snake shedding its skin.

    Tony cleared his throat and repositioned himself in his chair. “Well, Casey... Look, I know you know I'm a businessman, and we both know what I'm here for. But I'm not peddling anything, and I'm not going to rush you into anything either. What you've got is special, with or without your sister. Take your time, but I want you to know that the door to my studio is open just as wide. Always will be for you.”

    “Much appreciated, Mr. Merchant, but I have no plans to go in without her. It isn't just like I lost a band mate, you know, it's like I lost that strange muse within.”

    “Have you been playing music, kid? I mean, in the past weeks? I know even the thought of doing much of anything must be taxing right now, but I know too how it helps, music...” He waved a cloud of smoke from his face with a stubby hand.

    Casey leaned back and eyed Tony Merchant in appraisal. He had a vague sense that the sympathy was contrived, but he felt strangely comfortable with him. He took a long drag and spoke, exhaling: “Some. It's different now. Mostly I've been just strumming the uke and humming. It's like whatever I had before that lifted a hum into singing, you know, into words, it's gone. I don't know.”

    “I hear it, kid. Your burden is heavier than heaven. But I see something, because I look into the future sometimes, you know?” He winked and rose one side of his mouth in a hesitant smile. “I see things... I see you carrying her spirit on through the music, and I see you finding happiness in spite of it all.”

    “Is that so, good gypsy?”

    Tony let out an uninhibited laugh, and Casey chuckled quietly. For a moment they sat in silence, the smoke dancing in the orange overhead glow.

    “Anyway, Casey, I've got a few musicians who would be happy to play with you. No obligation or anything. I can just send them by anytime you feel like you're ready to start playing with someone again. Multi-instrumentalists, you know, and you can treat them like your minions. Have them play what you want. Just see what happens.”

    “Maybe,” Casey said, and he stubbed his cigarette out beside the other butt on the tabletop.

    Tony backed out of his chair, and before passing through the kitchen he pointed at the scattered pieces of the ukulele. “I'll send another one of those on by, either way. If the devil wanted to kill an angel, you know, he'd get it in their head to break their harps. No more broken instruments, yeah?”

    Casey watched Tony back out of the driveway, the house impossibly silent, and for a fleeting second he wished he'd turn back. He shrugged and placed a cigarette in his lips, letting it hang for a moment before he turned from the window and lit it.

***

    He considered going back to bed, but decided he'd make a cup of coffee and light a joint. He leaned back and relished the first drag like the smoke was life-giving. Glancing at the broken ukulele, he let out a scoff. The house was quiet but for coffee dripping into its pitcher. He set the joint on the countertop and bended down on one knee, collecting the pieces.

    He froze when he caught a glimpse of the L engraved on the first fret, his heart bounding into his throat and back down, beating suddenly fast. He tossed the pieces he had into the garbage bin and kicked the rest under the counters, suddenly limp with frustration. He put the joint back into his mouth and dragged on it, his hands occupied with the coffee, smoke billowing from his nose.

    He sat at the table and sipped the coffee, falling into reminisce about his last birthday with Carrie. They clambered to the bottom of a quarry with their matching ukuleles, hoping to find good acoustics among the rocks. They dueled with their strumming and singing in the descending dark, and Carrie didn't even notice when the wind fluttered her dress into a tangle on a tree. Casey didn't mention it to her and let out a gleeful laugh when they turned to leave and she gasped, fumbling to unwind herself.

    “Mmm-hmm,” she said on the trek back up, “and I'll feel free not to warn you when the dentist is about to fall out of his chair with his little tooth-puller lodged in your mouth.”

    He blinked out of his reverie when a bird slammed into a nearby window. He rose from the table slowly, craning his neck, and walked up to the closed door of the second-floor den. He stood with his fingertips limp on the door handle, his head swirling from the joint, and with a surge of mindless bravery he pushed the door open.

    The room stood before him awash in orange sunlight, a cloud of dust rising and dispersing with the force of the opened door. The floors were dark, scuffed hardwood and instruments were slung on every wall: violins, mandolins, all arranged according to their size. The wall closest to Casey bore many of the horned instruments, whose dust-speckled brass gleamed in the sunlight. There was a sparkling white drum set situated in a corner, and immediately adjacent to it, blocking off a closed closet, a set of recording equipment. Guitars, electric and acoustic, stood like soldiers in a line. The room was unkempt, a product of the twins' absentmindedness: two stools lie toppled in the middle of the room, packets from strings were discarded on the floor.

    Casey's thoughts were first with the sprawling instruments, and his mind did a leap at the thought of touching them again. He took a step into the room, aiming to keep his thoughts apart and burn some energy on the drum set. He stopped in mid-stride when the siding caught his eye.

    Stretching the length of one of the four walls was Carrie's unfinished art project, several taped pieces of paper lining the bottom of the wall where it met the floor. Water-color paintings depicted a vast, sharp-edged winter landscape with differing terrain and time of day as it progressed along the wall. Each square showed two small figures, one a long-haired girl in a dress, another a black-haired man with a guitar case on his back, progressing further along in each drawing. The snow began to lessen on the far end, and in one square the two were sitting on a mountaintop, musical notes emanating from their forms. The sky was hazy blue and star-spotted, and a shooting star dipped and sailed through the notes above the head of the pair. In the following square, the one pressed against the corner, the snow was melted at their heels and the pair were reaching across to the end of the painting, where sunlight dappled in from afar. The next wall was to be the Spring landscape, and Casey stared at its emptiness with a wistful gaze.

    Averting his eyes, he lit a cigarette and blinked rapidly, wishing his reverie away. His cane echoed through the room as he paced over to the drum set. He plopped onto the stool, the cane falling beside him, and he lifted the sticks from the snare. He twirled the sticks in his hands for a moment, his gaze going cross-eyed as he stared at a violin on the wall. With no discernible thoughts to hold onto, his mind swirled as he sat idly, feeling like a cool breeze was passing through his body.

    The sticks came down like a guillotine when he started playing, first like angry knocks, eventually finding a beat and hammering it into the drums like he had never done before. He flailed away at the set, tension seeping out of his body the longer, the harder he hit it.

    When his muscles began to tighten and flare and he could feel his heartbeat through his damaged knee, he slowed his pace down. Beads of sweat spotted the snare and leaped up like popcorn when he brought the sticks down upon it. He was breathing heavily, and he started to break into laughter as he stopped playing-- deep and broken belly laughs that felt strange and foreign.

    Picking at his ear with a drum stick, he spoke to the silence:  "Ready for this one, Dad? Casey. On three. One, two..." He slapped a cymbal and watched the stick ricochet away. The laugh bounded up to his throat again and he submitted to it for a strange moment.

    He stepped up from the stool and reached for the discarded cane, but his leg gave way and he went careening down, his feet knocking a cymbal and tom off their stands. His scream was muddled by the rings and thuds of the crashing equipment. He cursed himself and curled into a fetal position, squirming in the slivers of twilight on the floor.