You came to catalog a dead man's library. The portraits in the wing he forbids you to enter all wear your face.
He forgets the score on purpose so you have to stay close, and you feel how cold his hands are on the keys.
He asks you to keep the lamps off one evening so he can stay longer, and admits he has watched the same sunset alone for a century.
He warns you the tide here takes people, then begs you, against his nature, to dig where he points.
