Untitled Story

The flowery wallpaper was peeling, dusty cobwebs hung from the corners of the room and next to the window was an old woman playing a piano, its keys yellow from years of melodies; a memoir waiting for someone to give it back its voice so that it can sing the story of the past again. Her fingers were dancing gracefully, her eyes closed and her body swaying, completely inebriated in the music so beautifully inundated …

…piano room was ajar. This was peculiar. He walked tentatively towards the door and pushed it back with a soft creak. She was sitting at the piano, her head lying on the keys facing him. She had a small smile on her face, one that he's never seen before. He smiled at the epiphany. She looked more alive in death than in life. Perhaps death had given her life by eternalising her world of colour.