Free Stay by Jennifer Silverwood

unfortunately. The large, oddly shaped case flew up into me, sending me back several steps. Wincing, I held my breath and I waited for the inevitable crashing and tumble of the pile setting itself to rights. Instead I stood rock still with a body-length black case against my chest. I listened and was relieved to hear his uninterrupted, steady breathing on the other side of the wall.
    The case was made of two rounding curves and a long neck. I set it on the magical bed, flipped open the clasps and then pried open the top. The wood was darkly varnished, studded with metal and strings over a bored-in hole. The strings were cool and taut beneath my fingers and I watched the dust effaced and sound escaped the vibrations. My hand fisted over the long neck and I clutched it closer to my chest.
    This must be his instrument.
    I glanced up to find him standing in the open doorway, leaning against the frame with an inscrutable look on his face.
    “You are a musician, ” I said, unfazed by his sudden appearance.
    Cain reached out and took the instrument from my hands. He held it before him as he lost himself to the sleek track of wood. “My uncle gave me this when I was just a kid,” he said. “I even remember watching him perform on stage some nights. We lived in the flat above the club. Not a very practical place for raising kids, I know.”
    He glanced up at me from under the veil of his rumpled, dark hair and smirked. “I used to sneak down some nights, when I was supposed to already be in bed of course, and just listen. Then one night he catches me backstage messing with his guitar and says, ‘ You need to learn blues before you play anything else, boy .’ Then he just hands it to me and well, you know the rest.” Cain held the guitar closely to his chest and let his fingers brush over the thick strings.
    I held my breath in anticipation and was disappointed when the only sounds that escaped the guitar were more vibrations. His fingers stilled and I asked, “Is it broken?”
    Cain caught my eye and he grinned as he replied, “It’s an electric guitar. You can’t hear the music unless it’s plugged in.”
    I leaned forward to stroke the blue-painted wooden surface of the guitar and watched the muscles in his forearms twitch. “Did you learn?”
    “Yeah… practiced every day, even thought I was Smokey Robinson for a while.” His smile faded and he set the guitar back in its case. “But that was before high school. Things changed when my aunt got sick.” He shut the case and as it clicked back into place, so ended his tale.
    Setting my hand on the cover I persisted. “You should play again.”
    His dark eyebrows lifted a moment as he looked into me and then with a heavy tone said, “What do you know about it?”
    My fingers burned when he reached to grasp them and remove them from the case. For some reason it was difficult to speak and I refused to question why.
    “I know what it is like to forget your dreams,” I said, “to lose yourself in darkness.”
    He shut his guitar back in its closet without responding. I watched as he averted his gaze and crossed the room to check the pace of the snow storm beyond the curtain. Every good emotion I had felt from him seemed to be sucked out from that window, out into the frozen winter. It made me ache.
    “Did you want a shower?” Cain called over his shoulder. “Was just thinking, you might want to go first, before the hot water heater blows out for good. Couple more days of this weather and it won’t last much longer.” His biceps bulged with each clench of his fists.
    “How does it work?”
    Shocked out of his reverie enough to face me, he stared at me and then laughed. “You’re kidding? Rona, you can’t tell me you’ve never had a shower before.”
    I reached behind my back to twist my waist -length curls, an old human habit, and watched him warily. But when he shifted into the light again I could see the carefree man I knew yesterday, through cards and