He closed the door and walked slowly down the hallway. The third door on the right was locked, had been locked for months, but he stopped outside anyway and held his breath for a moment, listening.
He heard only silence.
That room, their music room, had known nothing but silence since the day he locked the door. She didn’t play the piano any more. It stood silent in there, dusty and most likely out of tune.
He sighed, remembering. She had played the piano more beautifully than any one who had ever walked this earth. Whenever she had sat down to play, it seemed as if she played only for him, and he had held his breath to listen.
It didn’t matter how long he held his breath now. She wouldn’t play.
He placed his hand on the door and bowed his head in sorrow. He missed her playing, would do anything to hear it again, yet he was responsible for the silence.
It was better this way, he told himself, clenching his fist. She had not played for him alone. Better then, that she should play for no one.
Behind the door, amidst the gathering dust, she sat still at the piano which she would never play again.
© Kari Fay
(Author’s Note: I saw Rammstein play live in Manchester last night – an amazing gig – so I decided to write something based on one of their songs. This is one of their quieter songs, but still one of my favourites.)