The polished jet black grand piano stood signularly across the room, the strings were beating in a melodious tone, the keys were capering gracefully, dancing in the rhythm of the heart, and moulding the shape of you.

I postured myself in a comfortable position, the grand piano was placed in a vicinity where sunlight or moonlight would be ample, the case for now was cloudy, sombre, mysterious. Nothing became a dithering attribute for me to play, I just wanted to reminisce, to see, to ponder about her presence.

My fingers were intertwined, I was sinking deep into my plays, my past, the delicate mementos were the bread crumbs to the distant past. A shadow silhouetted from the strings of the piano, it formed in front of me, featureless, facing back to me, it was her hair, her demeanor, her.

Concentrate. Her shadow was deforming. Focus. She was dissipating into thin air. Come on! I pieced myself together, so as the apparition. The strings of memories got themselves entangled beautifully into the perfect imperfection of my past, the curves, her hair, was as if she was alive yesterday, dwelling into my playing with her angelic voice.

John. It was her voice. My heart skipped a beat, a hiatus, a break for the reminiscence of the forgotten memento. I looked down desperately on my lap, tears started to roll down my cheeks, soddened my pants with despair.

Wise… Man… Said… Chord F, she lifted up my hands, Only… fools… rushed… in… Minor chord, this was how she rolled, I continued her accompaniment, the keys miraculously played, and she was singing, this moment felt forever, a reverie that was going in my head, a reality that was too hard to face. I slumped away from the seat, stared at the blue skies, only to realise that she was there, high and above, deep into the blue, blue sky.


Craving for more? Down below:
Centurian’s Drop
ATM FLAWED (A Sadistic Torture Case) #Finale

Monologue with Him
Face Twice
Apparent Passenger