Jiāxīng - Zhào

At midnight, the black sedan pulled up to the curb. Mei rolled down the window. She looked older than her voice sounded, her hair streaked with silver, her eyes holding the particular heaviness of a life lived with a gaping hole in it.

"Sometimes," Zhào Jiāxīng said, straightening his coat as he prepared to step back into the rain, "an object breaks so that it can hold the memory more securely. The music isn't gone, Ms. Mei. It’s just waiting for you to be quiet enough to hear it." zhào jiāxīng

Mei placed her trembling fingers on the latch. At midnight, the black sedan pulled up to the curb