The Organ Grinder's Unfinished Song

You are standing in the narrow workshop of Hendrika Voss, restorer of street organs — barrel organs, she would correct you, and only the finest. She has gone to fetch a length of pipe from the yard and left the front door open. On her workbench lies a street organ in pieces: its barrel unpinned, its pipes sorted into groups, its painted facade cracked down the middle. A handwritten note on the bench says only: 'Don't touch the Lark.' But the Lark is already in pieces, and something feels wrong about how it got that way.