The piano has joined the cymbals, the thousand violins, several hundred flutes, and a dozen pounding drums. Only the glass divides the two, separate entities, fueled by their own passions, one depicting life, and the other death.

Her eyes fall to the edge of the glass. A tiny face peers out, hands pressed up against the glass, eyes wide.

A witness to this; unable to comprehend the reasons why. She can only look on in confusion, her skin prickly with fear, unclear as to why mother stands precariously on the outer cement wall, her father in his study with his back to her.

It all means something, yet it will be years before she understands; or maybe she never will, and all she can recollect is her mother’s flowing white gown, the rush of wind through her thick brown hair, the soles of her feet, pink and supple, as her body plummets over the wall, out of sight in the blink of an eye.

She removes her palms from the glass, the palm prints embedded onto the clear surface. Her thin lashes bat away the sudden moisture, her head turning to her father, his chair creaking as his weight falls back, arms dangling at his sides, the pen slipping from his fingers to the floor. His chest heaves deeply, the tufts of gray hair protruding from the opening of his dress shirt, thick circles of perspiration caught within the fibers of the armpits of his shirt. The passion now on paper, having slipped away, escaping from his soul, resting silently and lethargically on twelve pages of parchment that lay on the hardwood floor.

She approached his side, her thin, resilient fingers clutching his, calloused and worn, the inner region of his index finger cracking and eroding from the life-long friction of his pen. He squeezes back, pulling her to his side, the arm of the chair digging into her shoulder.

The requiem slows to a snail-like pace, pausing briefly to catch its breath. He smells of hours-old tobacco and musky aftershave. The clock on the far wall ticks along, seconds lost and then gained, the latter oddly undetectable by the human eye.

Her eyes stare out the glass doors, across the garden, the water trickling from the marble angel’s mouth, splashing into the fountain water below. His eyes follow hers, a slight smile on his lips, the face of contentment, oblivious to the tragedy moments prior, as if time was compassionate, allowing him to savor this, right now, his daughter at his side, the ticking clock, his manifesto complete; before it all will change, take on new meaning, the altering of perception, as the curtain closes and the lights subtly fade into black.

The thick aging hand rests on her head, the fine blond hairs creeping up through the slits in between his fingers.

Paula, where is your mother?" The man asks.

She imagines her mother’s path of decent, the absence of planning or premeditation, envisioning feet smacking the oddly-shaped slabs of marble, her fingers absentmindedly dragging across the surface of the water, seeking a final touch and farewell.

His eyes follow hers; inquisitive and questioning. Her hand falls to his knee, resting there. She can see her mother’s face, that knowing and final smile that shone back at her through the glass, her mother’s eyes speaking without words.

Its okay, my love. I will always be here with you.

This too, shall pass.

The face fades away, lost forever, erased from the hidden crevices of her mind by an unknown assailant, as the child’s hand prints disappear from the glass like a ghost, a thin mist evaporating from sight.