Eight hammers hit eight strings through their cover of felt. A moan, too slowly smothered, pierces the night. Fear and anger whistling between closed ...ails. Un soupir. One crotchet of rest and an exalted cry rises in perfect rhythm. Is that so? You play the next few notes and she moans again, faster and softer. Behind the thin curtain, a skilled interpret plays a sensible instrument. A naughty little jam session. The girl growls in anger. She struggles, tries to escape. The musician corrals her. See, you have to go back, and write this story, and never forget to search for me in the real world. Until then, all of this is just smoke and mirrors, smoke and mirrors,” With those words, the fog began to get thicker, and thicker, and Rachel felt herself fading away, going somewhere else...what about the clicking of the red shoes, she thought hazily…click…click…click. Rachel awoke with a start, taking in her surroundings. There she was, still by the lake, a skier coming close to shore giving. More

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