. The Pianist

The soft piano tune emanated through the small flat. The melody played through the halls, echoing softly across a girl’s warm, sleeping form, passing through a newly wed suite, shifting gently across the street. Even as the blood trickled slowly across the keys, his fingers softly grazed across the white and black. His eyes shut and the small crooked smile played on his lips as he escaped into the melody.

The sun slowly surrendered her reign on the sky, the moon claiming her mantle. Still, the music played. The pace slowing only slightly. The keys still gently hammered the strings. A soft, cool glow blushed through the raindrops upon the windowpane, casting shifting, mottled patterns across the room. Women, on their way home, paused in the street, their heads slightly tilted, the notes drifting through them. Children slowly slept, the tender lullaby banishing their unrest. In the flat, the man paused to brush a lock of thick hair from his face, allowing one hand to leave the piano. The stiff arm, translucent and colourless, cracked as the slowly congealing blood dried. His breath coiled placidly before his face, a pale mist. He watched it curl towards the heavens. Felt his spirit within the air.

The music looped and vined around it as his hand passed back to the keys. The notes were a shield, not constricting but protecting, that placid spirit. The soft notes resounded down the halls. Slowly fading. The notes gradually faded.



Na vitrola: Bill Evans.

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