Some memories he could recall with stark, unnatural clarity—the basement of a bakery in Grozny, a hot and crowded train ride, a morning in the woods near Krasny Bor. They were sharper than reality, steely, absolute. He knew on sight that this would be one of those.

Red had a knife in his chest and a smile on his face. His friend was there—right there—and yet it felt as though he had yet to arrive. In a matter of minutes, maybe, Red would step into the room and react to the corpse with its back to the wall. Jackal stepped back, turned away, walked. His thoughts were muffled.

Across the room he climbed the steps to the stage. The world around him muted as he pulled back the fallboard. He lowered himself onto the bench, lifted his hands over the piano, and sat with his eyes trained on the keys, blinking. It hit him then, hard as a hammer.

His hands turned to blurs. A tear struck the keys between his thumbs. He had watched Red grow and change with a kind of pride he had never known before. This boy might as well have been his own brother, and without him the world was left a little colder.