August 1918. A picture palace on the Yorkshire coast. A woman stands at her piano, chalk on her fingers, a telegram folded in with the cue sheets. Four days since the news. Two hours until the doors open. One question to answer: how did you meet him?
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The answer is eleven minutes. A broken projector. A penny seat. A young soldier singing flat in the dark because he couldn’t let a silence go unfilled.
About the smallness of how love begins. The enormity of how it ends. The notes we miss and carry anyway. Sitting down, again, at the keys.
