I feel as though now is a good time to give you some background into Marie’s life before I divulge the information of who was knocking at her door. Marie grew up like anybody in the twenty-first century, losing more hope year after year. After a relatively uninteresting stay in the public school system, she was shipped off to university, right at the end of the war. The war that would eventually consolidate all of the world’s nations into five megastates did not phase her collegiate endeavors. A stinge with drugs, alcohol, and bad sex, however, did. Dropping out during her sophomore year, when the air was deemed uninhabitable barring filtration, she moved to the city of Greater Columbia, started working as a customer service representative for Daedalus Incorporated, and bought her first system set-up. This was when she met the mysterious person known only as Jones.

Jones supposedly lived on the other side of the continent, working in a fulfillment center for the much more successful company in Angel City, where the air was yet to be deemed uninhabitable. They were an enigma. Their avatar had no distinguishing features, say for the general humanoid shape that they took. Marie met Jones in a digital cafe in the system, drinking digital coffee and smoking digital cigarettes. They were both in line, waiting to order their digital coffee, when Jones struck up conversation with Marie. They got to talking and have been what we would call pen-pals ever since. Once they had sent actual letters to each other, contained within Christmas presents. Jones got Marie sheet music for Debussy concertos; which would have been useless, given that Marie already had this book in the system, and had learned every song in it, but this one had a physical poster inside, a poster that now hung in the eastmost corner of Marie’s drab apartment. Marie got Jones physical coffee and physical cigarettes, both grown at the equator.

Ever since the black-out, Jones’ phone had been out of service, set only to an answering machine whenever Marie, or anybody else, would try to call. Marie had given up a few weeks ago.

Now, onto the door.

Jones was considerably shorter than Marie, something that surprised her and took her off the scent that she was staring down the barrel of her longtime friend. She attempted to close the door in their face when they put an arm between the door and the frame.

“Marie, it’s me.” Jones said, in that ever familiar voice.

“Jones?” Marie asked. “Is that really you?”

Jones nodded. “Can I come in?” Marie opened the door and they both made their way from the small hallway that adorned all of Marie’s coats into the single room which inhabited her life. They sat down in relative silence for a good while. “Mind if I smoke?” Jones asked. Mary nodded and Jones pulled out a cigarette, the same brand that Marie sent them years prior during Christmas. At this point, Regina the calico approached Jones and rubbed against their leg. “Nice cat.” They said.

“Thanks.” Marie said. “How the hell did you get here?”

“Hitching rides on trucks and trains mostly. A lot of walking in between the rides. God, am I glad to sit down for a second. Those stairs are really steep.”

“I’m aware.” Marie’s face looked like that of a dead woman, staring blankly down onto the ground. “How’d you know that I live here?”

Jones motioned with the pack of cigarettes in their hand. “I had to do a little digging in my files to find an exact address. I was so relieved when I found out that I hadn’t thrown out the envelope you sent my gift in.”

“You hadn’t?” Marie asked.

“Call it sentimentality. I had a lot of friends in the system, but I always liked you the most, Marie. I just had to see you, to hear you play again.” During the years prior, Jones would often find themselves in the fluorescent green studio that Marie often called home after long days of work. They would come to the small concerts that Marie put on for herself, playing the pieces that her and Jones would compose together. Jones motioned towards the cheap plastic keyboard that Marie had just christened a few hours prior. “Do you think you could play me something?”

“I don’t know if I can play anything anymore.” Marie said. “I just got that thing today. I played one chord and it just felt– wrong.”

“I see.” Jones said, nodding. “Could you try, at least? I’d love to hear Passepeid.”

Marie smiled for the first time in a long time. “Sure, I’ll give it a go.” She went up to the desk, sat down at the piano bench and played the first note a couple of times. She looked to Jones for encouragement, who gestured for her to keep going. She played through the whole song, eventually winding up at the last refrain and stopping abruptly. Jones put their hand up to their chin and pondered for a second. Marie could feel tension going up her spine.

“I like it.” Jones broke the silence. “But you’re right, it just doesn’t sound the same as it did in your studio. There’s something missing; a resonance, a warmth maybe. I’m not sure. Anyway, this is no instrument for someone of your talent to be playing on.”

“It’s all I’ve got.” Marie said. “I spent the last of my paycheck on it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, monetarily wise.” Jones put out their cigarette on the heel of their army surplus boot. They were worn and rattled, like Jones themselves. Jones looked like they were in their thirties, though they were only twenty-three years old by the count of Marie from prior information. A few months trekking across the country does a lot to a person, supposedly. It also tends to empty one’s pockets at a rapid rate, which Jones explained to Marie. This gave Marie prompt motivation to clean some dishes and cook them a warm meal of home fried potatoes and steamed corn. The meal itself was nothing to write home about, but it did give Jones some motivation to get some shuteye.

Jones spent the night on Marie’s futon, snoring through their own deviated septum. Marie took the headphones from her system setup and gave practicing on the cheap plastic keyboard another go. This yielded more positive results, but there was still something that didn’t feel right about the instrument, the way it played or the way that it sounded, she wasn’t sure. She played through most of her catalog, stumbling often. Each wrong note she hit took a little bit more out of her sense of pride.

The phone rang around midnight. It was her father, Carl Joyce.

“Marie, my sweet, how have you been?” Carl asked in a warm, neighborly tone.

“Dad. It’s nice to hear from you. Sorry I didn’t answer you yesterday.” Marie said.

“Yesterday?” Carl considered this for a second. “Oh yes, your mother’s condition has taken a turn for the worse. But don’t worry, I’ve checked her into a hospital. She should be good to go within a few weeks, what with all this new medical technology they’ve got.”

Marie sighed, remembering the cold, snowy day of her mother’s funeral. “Sure, dad. I’m sure everything will be just fine with her.”

“How are you doing?” Carl asked, joyously unaware of the grim tone he had set. “How’s the new job?” He was referring to the customer service representative position that Marie had been hired for six years ago.

Marie chuckled hopelessly. “It’s fine, dad. I’m excited about it, y’know.”

“That’s good, that’s good. Hey, you get some rest now, slugger. It’s bound to be a busy day tomorrow.” At this, Marie looked down at Jones, in the midst of rolling over.

“Yeah, I’m sure it is.”