This story has echoed in me another brilliant short story that I love dearly, and that has moved me to tears like no other story has ever since I first read it many years ago: "Rothschild's Violin", by Tchekhov. Although they have very different premises, I feel that they both have a similar vein that explores themes that never fail to strike a chord with me: loss, regret, and that terrible feeling that maybe once you held something really special in your hands, but that somehow it slipped from your fingers and now you're destined to feel the lack of it forever. Of course I loved this story. How could I not? Maybe it takes a little while to get going - I'll admit it was difficult to keep engaged with it at the beginning, but I'm glad I have stuck with it, for I have been well repaid. I have the impression I'll revisit it from time to time, and that pieces of it will pop up in my mind when I least expect it. I'm looking forward to that.