A Ghost's Piano

• Azariah Wigley-Gill, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2022

Death hangs over the city. The buildings loom above, with dark windows and roofs that sag beneath the weight of dust and neglect. Colours don’t exist in this world, only shades of grey washed out further by the bleak sky.
Silence. A silence so suffocating it shrouds every building and crushes my lungs until I can scarcely breathe. The silence is the most haunting change of all. When I lived here, the streets rang with music and laughter and dancing. Before I fled, I would dance and sing alongside them. This city hasn’t heard music in far too long.
The car that brought me is long gone, trundling back toward the living world. I am alone. Alone among ghosts. I step forward, horribly aware that I tread on unmarked graves.
Reminders of life are everywhere; a child’s stroller sitting haphazardly outside a shop with shattered windows, a food vendor’s cart coated in cobwebs and shaded by a torn umbrella. Landmarks jump out, familiar yet so foreign, a skeleton city washed in blood and tears. Vision blurred, I force myself forward, eyes on the streets that fell silent one scream at a time.
An old man steps into the road before me, leaning heavily on his cane, red hat tucked over a shock of white hair. He glances toward me, lips turning in a merry smile at odds with our eerie surroundings. I blink, and he’s gone.
He is only the first. Ghosts materialise as I move through the streets, forming swirling crowds of colour in a black-and-white world. Some walk alongside me, a shield from the crumbling remains of our home. Others wander ahead, deeper into the city centre. Anticipation hangs heavy in the air, excitement amidst crumbling ruins.
The grand piano sits in the centre of the square, ash dusting the surface like snow. Enchanted, I step forward, ghostly hands whispering against me. I take a deep breath. Another. My hands fall to the keys.
The melody is gentle at first, a handful of delicate notes that twinkle in the still air. Rain starts to fall, washing away blood and ash until the city sparkles in what little light remains. And with a silent sigh, the ghosts begin to dance. Heart bursting, I watch each glowing figure weave a path of glorious colour through the destruction, an image painted in drops of rain. My fingers skip across the keys, creating an intricate and haunting song as the ghostly forms of the young and old dance around the square, their music restored.
War is a selfish and hungry beast, stealing lives and futures and dreams. My song tells the story of these ordinary people whose music was torn away; their city cast into silence. All around me, they twirl in silent celebration as the song reaches a furious crescendo, filling the streets with music once more. I play until the delicate chords of a ghost’s orchestra take up the melody, carrying it over the war-torn city and up into the stars.