41. The Ghost
The Ghost
The song was perfectly and beautifully melancholic, challenging but not too hard I gave up, and better yet—I had no reason to play it other than I wanted to. No recitals, it wasn’t in my tutor’s lesson plans. It was all mine.
So when I hear a familiar music-box melody chiming from the practice room on the second floor, for a moment, I believe it’s a figment of my imagination.
It conjures memories of the garden, the cemetery, and quiet summer mornings with soft breezes and birds chirping. A freedom I didn’t realize I missed.
She’s playing it—for me. Surely.
Henri listens patiently, standing behind the bench.
She’s moving slowly, so he can follow along easier.
He’s attentive. Observant. Remarkably so for his age.
Eyes darting back and forth to watch her fingers land, peeking at the sheet music around her shoulder, his little foot tapping even without the metronome.
I know that look: his own hands yearning to play through the piece.
Whether she meant it or not, I accept this offering, this apology. Especially so, when she is alone again at night and pulls out the waltz—my waltz—to play.