While the maestro was intent on the mirage, the House struck. It attempted to overwhelm the master with a rapid beat from the start, but he was too quick. He dodged the House’s attempts to force a crescendo upon him with apparent ease and never once lost the rhythm, no matter how swift it became. When the House strived to make its music louder than that of musician, he let it, but it still did not overwhelm him. His piano rang out true through the slamming of doors and the creaking of wood. It appeared that he would be the victor of this round when he slipped. He lost the beat for less than half of a second. He had stopped, fearing defeat, when he heard a tear from above. He looked in time to see the ornamental crystal chandelier that had been the pride of his family for generations falling towards him before jolting to a stop, held on by a thin electrical wire.

        That is when the phantom began to scream. It broke the young gentleman out of the spell placed upon him by shock. He returned to his playing with the fever of a person on the brink of death. He spun the music through the scream. He wove the rhythm through it until the two created an arresting and sorrowful song that would have made many weep. It had the beat of a life wound through it. The fat, lazy summer days and the days that one dares to dance in the thunderstorm. The early mornings that one forces upon oneself and the late nights where sleep never comes. The wrong words and the words unspoken. All of this was halted by one wrong note. It rang out even more clearly than the beautiful song that attempted to envelope it.

        The chandelier’s wire broke. The final sound in that ode was a long, resounding note.