pianist

The flickering flames stuttered, nervously, in the grate, which trembled by the November wind, through the gaps in the old, stone walls. Shadows danced, leaping across the oak floor, vaulting over high-backed, wooden chairs. St. Silent as a graveyard, with not even the ticking of a clock to disturb the old quiet.1

And in the centre of the room, the grand stands, its gleaming keys catching the rare speck of dust which falls from the ceiling. The piano stool, unoccupied, its leather as cold as marble. The flames died. The wind gave a mournful sigh in the chimney. Silence.2

The stool creaked, softly, as if bored with the silence. The tap, tap of nimble fingers on the smooth ivory of the keys. And then, a melody burst forth, so beautiful it would have bought tears to the eyes of anyone who cared to listen. Nobody cared. Fingers ascended the white notes, mounting the black.3

A light clicks on and the melody continues. I stare at the piano in wonder; the keys are moving of their own accord. The room is empty, not a person in sight. And all is forgotten in the final notes of that melody. The memories of my childhood are bought so sharply to my mind's eye, that I reel from the force of them. My knees give in, and I fall to the cold floor. And I dimly recollect the creak of a leather piano stool, the tapping of long nails on piano keys, and then, silence once more.