“Sometimes we hear the piano play,” the old man jittered. “No one entered the musician’s house since he passed.”
Open panes exposed the second story to elements. A gust blew heavy dust off rotten furniture. All the locks were rusted shut. Of course he would make up stories, I thought. It brings visitors to town.
“Sure, and did you see candles light the old bita-og tree too?” I sneered.
The midnight mist blanketed Magallanes town in damp silence. Amid the stillness, I thought I heard music.