A Pianist

• Mahela Meera Mohanadas, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2018

Morning light splays into the room, illuminating the wooden floorboards and spraying across the immaculate white walls. A quick glance to the clock tells our protagonist that it is 9 o'clock in the morning. She is bathed in a golden hue, her usual black hair now appearing as a dark brown in the sunlight. He would've called her an angel, but he wasn't there anymore. She almost imagined him, her grandfather, gently knocking at her door with a warning that if she did not get up soon she would not be getting breakfast. Her face was alight with a smile as she remembered him. Who he had once been.

She remembered sitting at her piano, playing for the audience of one. The cheers and claps that would be echoed once she finished the piece, or even during the piece. Even if she had made a mistake, she was showered with praise that made her smile so bright it battled that of the sun. She was a kaleidoscope of colour, hues that covered all ends of the spectrum. Brimming with euphoria. But he had left, not by choice of course, and her smile quickly vanished as she remembered what day it was. It was the 22nd of August - his death anniversary.

She had stopped playing once he had passed. It pained her every time she sat on the piano bench, an empty spot where he had once been. When she touched a key, a note would escape it, but she would also hear a faint echo of applause that was once so loud that the walls had trembled. Once so loud that the ringing in her ears took a day to disappear. And with a moment of shocking clarity she realised that he would have hated it, knowing that she had stopped playing upon his disappearance. He would feel guilty, she knew. So with newfound determination, she stood and walked to where she knew the untouched piano would be.

There was no layer of dust settled atop its keys. Her parents had continued to clean and tune it, with the hope that one day she would play again. The lid was littered with such intricacies of gleaming gold and shimmering silver, that it was a crime for it to have been left alone for so long. She sat at the piano bench, her fingers poised to play a tune. One that he had loved dearly.

And just like old times, she began playing.

She felt everything. The soft hum of the treble, the rumble of the bass, and the tinkling of the sharps. It vibrated in her bones. Narrating the story of daffodils, rainbows, and brightness. Its sound was warm and alive. A crescendo of crashing waves. A glowing ember in the darkest night. Pure, unbridled, limitless energy. More powerful than all of the stars in the universe colliding together at the end of the world. It had been silenced for too long. And it would not be subdued again.