“It’s one of my favorites,” I admit, barely above a murmur, as my fingers continue to dance across the keys.
As the last note fades into a tender silence, I let my hands fall to my knees, feeling strangely vulnerable. Turning to face her, I’m met with a gaze that holds warmth and perhaps a glimmer of something deeper.
“Really?” Her voice is filled with a gentle curiosity that nudges my heart into a quicker pace. The way she looks at me at this moment suggests that she likes what she sees.
Well, I do too.
“It’s been a favorite for a while,” I respond, my hands subtly shaking as I brush them on my thighs to dispel the nervous energy.
“You knowmyfavorite. “Comptine d’un autre été”by Yann Tiersen. You should play that one.” Grandpa comes to stand on my other side, leaning in to browse through the music sheets with trembling hands until he finds it, as demanding as always when I play for him.
I don’t do it often enough anymore.
I hesitate, the memories associated with that piece flooding back. I played it at a music school concert for him almost two decades ago, and I made so many mistakes. Because it was his favorite, and I always worried I wasn’t good enough.
Worry leads to mistakes.
Although Grandpa clapped so loudly for me, I never heard who didn’t.
“You know I don’t like to play it,” I murmur.
Not in front of her,for sure.
“Come on, I haven’t heard it in such a long time,” Grandpa presses, his voice gentle yet persistent.
Amelia’s gaze lingers on me for a moment, her eyes probing. There’s a softness in her expression, a gentle curiosity that doesn’t push but waits patiently. When I don’t say anything, she turns away from my hesitation, her fingers hovering over the keys for just a heartbeat before they descend gracefully. The moment her fingertips touch the ivory keys, her eyes close as if shutting out the world.
And if I thought she was good playing on that pile of firewood in the park, then hearing her play on a Bösendörfer is an almost religious experience. I watch, transfixed, as she loses herself in the music, her expression serene. Playing the piece by heart, she doesn’t open her eyes once to look at the sheet music in front of us.
The sound is delicate yet powerful, warm yet poignant, weaving through the air like a vibrant thread sewing together moments of silent longing and tender melancholy. The room seems to breathe with the music.
Grandpa still stands next to me, a subtle smirk on his lips as he listens to her play. He nods at me approvingly as if to say,that’s the girl.
And she is.
But not for me.
As Amelia’s final notes linger in the air, a hush envelops the room. With a breath, I slide my fingers on the lower octaves, hesitating only a moment before pressing down. The deep, resonant chords blend with the silence until Amelia’shands gracefully resume their dance across the higher notes, and together, we weave the melody back into existence.
Playing with her feels different, liberating. The usual weight of expectation lifts, and each note we play together fits perfectly as if the piece was always meant to be a duet.
As if I’ve just waited for her to play it with me.
When we’re done, Grandpa starts to clap, and Amelia finally opens her eyes to beam at me, making my heart skip a beat.
“Bravo!Amazing,” Grandpa gushes,and Amelia bites her lips to keep from smiling.
I don’t like that.
I want all of her smiles.
Grandpa leans forward, his eyes twinkling with interest as he watches her. “Amelia, dear, do you always play with your eyes closed?”
That’s what I want to know.
Amelia’s cheeks tint with a soft pink as she glances down at her hands intertwined in her lap. “Yes,” she begins, her voice a little hesitant as she meets his gaze again. “When I was younger, I had to play in front of others, and I… well, I’m not very comfortable with crowds. Closing my eyes, it feels like I’m only playing for myself. It’s just me and the music then and my heartbeat. It’s the only thing I hear.”
Grandpa nods thoughtfully, stroking his white mustache. “And what kind of piano do you have?”
