This is a longing that will draw her across Seattle, Prague, Bonn...and time itself. Charlotte is far too captivated by the enchanting tourist who's laid claim to the piano in a jazz bar. The likeness isn't blatantly noticeable to the other patrons. After all, the composer in which he bares such a striking resemblance is not of common interest. It is obvious to Charlotte. Never mind that the composer has been dead for more than a hundred years... With each encounter, his words spoken and the personality that unfolds before her, Charlotte observes that the resemblance is deeper than superficial. All that remains of the venerated composer are the portraits, a slew of biographies and a wealth of exquisite music...or is there more? Could history breathe; an immortal intact, side stepping his own legacy? Then again, at what point does an active imagination become insanity?