After his mother passed, he stopped playing the piano. He said it didn’t sound right anymore—that the keys felt too clean, too willing.
His daughter tried once, thinking it might comfort him. He stood in the doorway, watching her fingers stumble through Debussy, then left the room before she finished.
The house grew quieter. Even the fridge hummed softer.
Later, she found a sticky note tucked on the piano lid: “Do not disturb the quiet she left behind.”
She opened the lid, touched the ivory keys with two fingers, feeling the low tremble of the strings. She began playing.
His daughter tried once, thinking it might comfort him. He stood in the doorway, watching her fingers stumble through Debussy, then left the room before she finished.
The house grew quieter. Even the fridge hummed softer.
Later, she found a sticky note tucked on the piano lid: “Do not disturb the quiet she left behind.”
She opened the lid, touched the ivory keys with two fingers, feeling the low tremble of the strings. She began playing.
