106

The keys move in waves, up and down up and down the piano, pressed gently by dancing fingers, made to be soft and strong in all the right places. The piece is Frédéric Chopin's Fantaisie-Impromptu in C-sharp minor, Op. posth. 66, written by a composer who was said to have hated the very sound of it. Like a tiny cathedral in the forest, the strings inside the Yamaha's wooden body sound their little bells, beaten by little hammers. Up and down, up and down, waltzing to the tune of a dream.

Gentle, pianissimo, your hand on my shoulder as you move my upper body to the stream of the melody. You push me straight into the sea of notes, as I find myself swimming in the very feelings I have sought to escape. It overtakes me like the smell of baby powder, and I am afraid to close my eyes, for fear that you will not be beside me when I open them again. I am asleep, but I am so awake. I can hear the sounds, I can see the keys, I can taste the fortes and pianissimos upon my tongue. But I can't feel you. You're right here, standing next to me, your soft hands cradling my hopes and nurturing the notes, but you are not real, you are not real. You are a dream, like everything I have ever dreamed of, like every little piece of a puzzle that will never become one.

The keys cease to move, the hammers cease to beat, and fingers cease to dance. And a heartbeat stops, short of the one thing it yearned for the most, the love I felt for this piece, for the piano, and for you.