I peered in, hoping not to be noticed, and found a tall man with black hair blunt cut to his shoulders bent over the keyboard, his long fingers dancing along the black and white keys as though he owned them. The music came, not from the piano, but from his soul. Even as I had questioned who this could be, the answer was now shocking me and I had to step inside the large room to make sure.
It was Nate Blackstone. He wore the usual faded denims, but had on a green and silver striped, button down shirt. How was it possible he not only could play the Native American flue with such majesty, but also the piano with such mastery, as though he were a reincarnation of Mozart himself?
I crept up to within a few feet behind him, still awestruck by the fact he was playing the piano. Was there some r
