To say here is far, and to call yonder nearby. Stories on the edge of the every day, strange tales you may or may not be moved by. Strange, curious, fantastic stories told by me, you, him and her. There are many stories but they’re all concluded within a single page, each story around 200 to 1200 characters in length, a short story collection you can easily read. Please enjoy them. Updated every Saturday at 6pm.
Last week my father contacted me to let me know he was selling the piano. My mother, a nurse, was rather proficient with it and able to play many songs. Both myself and my younger sister spent much of our youth listening to her play it. However, after our mother died, nobody in the family touched it. The memories of our mother were too strong.
The tone of the piano was a direct link to memories of our mother, so if somebody played it, we’d all remember her. We cleaned it, maintained it and had it serviced, but even so, nobody played it.
It was full of memories, but eventually I moved out of home, and my sister starting living alone as well, so finally our father decided it was time to sell it.
It might be sentimental, but I wanted to see it one last time. I went home the first weekend I had free from work. Unfortunately, nobody was home, but I still had a key. I stepped into the familiar house and moved towards the piano room.
As always, it was well looked after. I lifted the lid and touched the keys. My mother liked Erik Satie, in particular his Gymnopedie, and she played it nearly every day. My sister and I called it “our mother’s song,” and even now when I hear it, I can see my mother sitting in front of the piano playing it.
But, I’m sorry to say, I couldn’t play it. The written music that I had memorised long ago was like a haze in my mind. I sighed and closed the lid, putting the chair back and lying on the ground. Luckily, no-one was there to get upset at my bad manners.
Although it was a free weekend, I might have overdone it a little, and I was tired on top of that. Before I knew it, I was drifting to sleep. In my dreams, I could hear the faint sound of a piano playing.
The doorbell woke me up. I got up and looked at the clock. Not a lot of time had passed.
“I’m back!” My sister, who had moved out in April, stuck her head through the door. “You were playing Mum’s song, weren’t you?”
That was the first thing she said.
“I could hear from outside. That’s how I knew you were already here.”
I looked over at the piano. The lid I had closed was open. The seat was also moved to a position where somebody could sit at it to play.
It must have been our mother.