The golden afternoon sun streams gently in, sitting gracefully on his shoulders-hunched in concentration. His head bent, vision filled with black and white. Slender fingers glide smoothly over the keys. He plays a melody he should be too young to understand. The sound fills the space, wraps around the battered legs of the bench that holds him. It lingers in front of faded photographs, floats by deserted toys. It is a beautiful kind of lonely. Dangerous and soft. The air is still. There is only him.