The fading ebony and egg-creme ivory feel stiff like her arthritic fingers. The hammers and dull chords with notes sunk southward--vapid and unanswered, such are the words that never came. The boy with the almond eyes pleads with the old woman to play his favorite tune--an airy, innocent jingle. She sits in her chair, rocking and rhythmically rubbing her knees, back and forth creaking the floorboards. "The key players are dead."