In the days leading up to the shutting down of Joey Drew Studios, employees would often hear music coming from the Music department, even when there was meant to be no one there. The song that played had no words, but its tune was a melancholic one, & told of grief & a broken heart. It was never quite the same, yet it was unmistakably the same song. Sometimes, it was the piano that played the somber tune. Other times it would the the violin, wailing with grief. Once, even the banjo joined it's brethren in telling the tale of loss.
The employees observed a man travelling down to the department. He never touched the instruments, they weren't his to play. Yet, with the simple flick of a single, withered finger, the music would begin. The man would lean back in a rickety, wooden chair, swaying to the beat. He'd occasionally whistle along, lost in his own head, in memories long gone.
When the song came to an end, the man would stay. He'd get to his knees, clutching his head, his tears spilling along the floor, & ask himself where exactly had he gone wrong. His mind always sent him back, somewhere to the beginning, where the music was contained in the little radio in the centre of the small, one storey tall building. The song of the week could be heard all throughout the studio then, when little more than 5 people knew of its existence. Then he'd remember its gradual descent down, down below where the music no longer fell on awaiting ears. And he'd be reminded of the mistakes that twisted the words of joy, killing the last remnants of who he used to be.