Flakes of Viennese snow drifted in through the open window. On top of the grand piano a single candle dripped wax onto unscored manuscripts. A once warming fire now lay cold and grey in the hearth. Crippling fever pains again gripped his stomach; tears of stale sweat drenched his shirt.
None of this mattered – all that mattered was the commission, and his reputation.
Gripping the quill as firmly as he could between trembling, calloused fingers, two more bars, and then three more, were added to the overture. This requiem would be finished on time, even if it killed him.
These words form my entry into Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.
(Apologies to the makers of Amadeus for this ham-fisted plagiarism of their cinematic masterpiece!)