A lone piano stands in an empty church.
Perhaps, once, it was loved, you think as you walk up to it, noticing the dust that cakes the keys. Really, it is a simple instrument, but it is one that you have always held a deep fondness for. A small smile forms on your lips as you rub off the keys, eyes watering at the amount of grime in the air.
You settle yourself down on the worn piano bench, which lets out a soft groan as you settle onto it. And then you press the keys.
The sound wobbles in the air, slightly distorted by wear and time. But it is a sound that you know well and love, and it doesn’t bother you. So you play, eyes fluttering shut, fingers dancing gracefully across the keys. A bright melody fills the room with color and magic, and you allow yourself to smile again as you continue your tune.
When your piece concludes, you don’t move, staying at the seat of the first piano you’ve seen since the war. You realize, with a jolt, that you are crying.