Gemotions

The old piano was out of tune. Michael, a musician, ran his fingers over the keys, the discordant notes grating on his ears. He should have offered to tune it. He should have played for her, as she asked.

The house echoed with the ghosts of his grandmother’s laughter, her stories. He sat on the piano stool, the seat worn and cracked. He had been too busy chasing fame, neglecting the simple things. The silence was deafening, punctuated only by the off-key music.

He closed his eyes, remembering the last time he saw her. He had been rushing, late for a concert. He’d given her a quick hug, a perfunctory goodbye. He struck a single, mournful chord, the sound hanging in the air.