Dust motes swirled in the air over the old piano, stirred up by the cadre of movers that were slowly emptying the dilapidated house. The city had finally condemned the sagging, creaky Victorian home, pronouncing it beyond repair. The neighbors were glad; somebody would finally bulldoze that eyesore. Most of the movers were glad, glad enough. It was another job that would put food on the table, even if it was dirty work.
But Jonas found himself saddened by the state of the place, a strange feeling for him. After all, he’d worked on his share of abandoned structures, hauling out spray-painted bathtubs, moldy bureaus, and whatever else the owners had left behind. Never had the sight bothered him. He was a man who didn’t blink twice at a rat infestation, who drove a rattletrap car without concern for the possibility of the engine exploding, and who had hopped from one city to another, never leaving any meaningful ties behind. Jonas never got attached. Ever.
Jonas never had regrets. Or so he’d thought.
But as he leaned up against the rotting doorframe of what had been the parlor entry and gazed at the old, abandoned piano, Jonas felt sad. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because it was a shame that this instrument had no one to make beautiful music on it.
Well, that was something he could remedy, was it not? Jonas glanced over his shoulder, looking for the foreman. He was nowhere in sight, probably on lunch break. A little music wouldn’t hurt. The piano probably wasn’t even in tune. He’d just try it.
Jonas pushed back the loose cover and eyed the keys. The white keys were yellowed with age, and some paint had chipped off the corners of the black ones, but it wasn’t in terrible shape. There was no bench, so Jonas knelt on the dusty floor. He took a deep breath. It had been a long time since he’d played. He’d stopped lessons when he had abandoned his hometown. But the muscle memory remained; he knew it. So he tugged off his gloves, let his hands hover over the keys, and closed his eyes.
Music hummed within the piano, rising from the strings, echoing against the wood, and bursting into the air. Jonas’ fingers danced, hammering out the quick, fast rhythm of an old shanty, that, as a teenager, he’d taken and arranged into a more complicated song. The notes were perfect, resonating flawlessly. The neglected piano hid perfection inside its battered frame.
The foreman, surprised by the sudden arrival of noise on the quiet job site, peered into the room and saw Jonas there by the piano, his head tilted up, his weather-beaten face cracking into a smile. The foreman frowned. Strange fellow. Didn’t know he could do that. But he’s not harming anything. Guy’s got talent. I want to hear him play.
Jonas played on, and before he knew it, the rest of the crew had joined the foreman in the doorway. But Jonas didn’t notice. His eyes were closed, his fingers moving on their own, his mind back in a little town by the sea where he could smell the salt and hear the gulls. In reality, Jonas was a thousand miles from the shore, inside a ruined house, playing an old piano that would soon be thrown out with all the rest of the garbage. But just for a few moments, he was home again.
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