Every single day you’d find yourself back at the piano, gazing at its sleek black coat and untouched ivory keys.
You’d find yourself back at its seat, fingers raised to play a song.
Then you’d look to my hands after you’ve snapped out of that daze.
In scars. After the surgery.
And you hesitate.
Because you don’t want to taint the purity of the piano.
With hands that are scarred and rough.
Only to return.
Only to curse because of your own disability forced by Lady Fate.
You’d then remember the old days.
Full of music that these hands used play.
Something wet falls from your eye.
Arms wrap around your own and you feel his breath on your shoulder.
“The piano has waited.
For hands to play the song on its keys.
Hands that are willing to let it sing again.
I believe it’s time to let it do so, no?”
He wipes my tears away, kisses you on your cheek and you turn to gaze at him.
Only to meet his smile.
“Come on” he offers
“I’ll guide you.”
And you let him.
“It’ll be alright.”
There’s no need to be afraid.
Seconds after, the silence is broken by the song of the piano.
And you find yourself smiling.
You turn around to hug him or show whatever sign of gratitude that had settled in you.
Only to meet empty air.
And you finally wake.
On the hospital bed, crying.
It was just a dream.