In a house, such is this, there sits in a corner a baby grand white piano. The lid over the keys is hardly, if ever, closed, but the keys are hardly, if ever, played. There comes a rare occassion when all the house is still and quiet that a figure will move. There will come the sound of a body settling on the bench and fingers very gently and hesitantly laying atop those pearly white keys. The music will start by the loud and echoing creaking of the petal, always stepped on and hardly lifted up. Then a chord. Or a single note. The shelf for music may be occupied, but the notes are never looked at it. The hands are virgin to the keys, save a chance played twice or thrice before. The only memorized note is a C and the only known lesson is to not press down two keys standing adjacent to the other. The left hand is the mood. Two or three fingers will play a chord; dark, light, medium, happy, somber, angry, sad. The right hand does the talking. Fingers race up and down the keys in rolls and frenzies as if to get a hyper thought across. When the phrase is said, the right hand will find a matching chord and rest. You don't know the sounds of the Piano Player. She comes once every blue moon when days are grey and nights are lonely. She never plays the same song twice and the story is always different. One would like to think that the ending chord is a happy one. But it's never an ending chord she plays. Just a pause, a sound note that will end for now but can always be picked up again, as it always is. And when that final chord plays, the foot stays down long after the fingers lift. She'll sit and wait, listening as the echoes inside the piano die and only then, when silence has returned, does she lift her foot. She's the piano player, the seat reserved for her, the music hushed until her fingers find it.