The last Song

“Play for me again, please!” she pleaded with him. “No!” he shouted. He didn’t even remember why he was so angry with her. The rage burned inside him and he went out to the open field. He didn’t want to see her until it was too late. And now the open fields behind his house felt too empty, leaving him with a hollow feeling — as if he were a scarecrow trying to keep hungry birds from a harvest that no longer existed. But there was no one to chase away; everything was green and deserted. Nothing eased the regret in his heart, and the heavy feeling only grew with time.

“Grandpa Henryk!” A high, chirpy voice called from beyond the front door. Henryk sat in his armchair, tired and drained. Once, hearing his grandson’s voice had made his heart flutter and a wide smile spread across his face. Now he only scowled at the grating sound. He hauled himself up and opened the door. Christopher, his seven-year-old grandson, wrapped his small arms around Henryk and hugged him with all his little strength — enough to pull a weary sigh from the old man’s dry lips.

“A little affection won’t kill you, Dad.” His daughter, now a mother herself, smiled at him and hugged him with her whole heart. It stirred a small ache of longing in him. His eldest daughter was his entire world, so he promised himself he would try a little harder with Christopher.

Just a little.

His daughter had insisted on hosting the family meal at his musty old house. He hadn’t been thrilled about having his children and grandchildren under his hollow roof. His second daughter arrived shortly after the first, her own baby girl still a soft little infant who fell asleep in her father’s arms.

“What’s this?” Christopher asked. At his age, he was less a child than a small scientist determined to uncover the world with his own hands. Henryk mostly just found him nosy. A boy like that, he thought, surely has no patience for questions once he’s already worked out the answer for himself. Christopher darted from object to object as if hunting for a serial thief’s fingerprints. His daughter had insisted that her son have some company his own age; Henryk wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea, but he didn’t reject it either. His children set the table while he played with Christopher in the dusty living room. A framed photograph of a woman hung on the wall. After staring at it for a long while, Christopher asked who she was — but Henryk couldn’t answer.

“Enough with the questions. Go back to your toys,” he snapped, the words slipping out before he even noticed. Christopher lowered his head and went quietly back to playing, subdued.

After dinner, Christopher’s curiosity flared up again and he went on rampaging through the house, his sharp eyes hunting for anything out of sight. Henryk asked his daughter whether she’d accidentally let him eat too many sweets.

“You were naughtier than he is,” she shot back, laughing. “That’s not true,” he protested. “That’s exactly what Mom always used to say,” she said lightly.

Flora. Even the faintest mention of her name tore roughly at something in him, stirring up a whirl of pain. His daughter apologized quietly, but he shook his head — it wasn’t her fault. Because of the storm outside, the family stayed the night in the spare rooms of the house. Everyone got ready for bed — except Christopher, of course. Henryk fell asleep in his armchair in the living room.

A little before midnight, a heavy rain began to fall, the drops striking the window like loud knocks. Suddenly a single, random note rang out — Henryk knew the sound at once. Someone had touched his piano. He fixed his eyes on Christopher and scolded him so sharply the sound echoed through the whole house.

“Get away from it, now!” he shouted at a startled Christopher. “What is it?” Despite the shout, Christopher didn’t back down. “It’s an instrument. It’s called a piano,” Henryk said, and something like longing crept into his voice. His hands ached at the memory. “Can you play it?” Christopher asked. “No!” Henryk cut him off. “Do you know how?” “Of course,” he answered without thinking. “Then why don’t you play it?” Silence fell between them. “Mom said you play beautifully. She said you used to play for her every night.” The memory brought a familiar warmth. He thought of the last argument he’d had with Flora, his wife — she had begged him to play for her, and out of some foolish quarrel he had refused. They were both grown adults by then, and still Henryk had fought with her like a sulking child. That night he fell asleep in the living room, and she in their bed. She never woke up again. And from that day on, Henryk slept in the living room.

“Mom told me it’s a magic piano,” Christopher said, quite seriously.

“That’s true.” A small smile curled, unbidden, at the corner of Henryk’s mouth. He couldn’t deny the magic he still felt the moment a melody rose from beneath his fingers.

“Can you show me the magic? Please, Grandpa.” Christopher looked at him, pleading — the thunder outside had unsettled him a little. Henryk sighed. He was so tempted to summon that magic once more.

“All right. I’ll play for you,” he said, his voice heavy.

“Play for me again, please!” Her voice echoed in his ears. He lowered himself in front of the piano with a heavy heart, an involuntary tingle running down to his fingertips. He glanced at Christopher, whose eyes were shining with excitement. Thumb, index, ring finger, little finger settled onto the keys. Henryk couldn’t stop. Note after note wove into melody, into harmony, like an enchanted circle spun from his hands alone. And so it was — a spark of light burst from the piano. Then another small, glittering flicker. Henryk quickened the pace, and the sparks became clear beams of light that lit the whole room. He caught a glimpse of Christopher, grinning ear to ear, and a burst of laughter took Henryk himself by surprise — he hadn’t laughed like that since Flora died.

The melody went on, and the light reshaped itself into scenes. One showed Henryk as a boy, even more mischievous and full of energy than Christopher, running joyfully through golden fields. The field folded itself into a sphere of light that released an older memory still: a young Henryk chasing after girls, getting into fistfights, tormenting the neighbors. Christopher doubled over laughing at the sight of Henryk furiously chasing a hen that had yanked at his trousers with its beak. The older Henryk watched with a smile just as delighted. He missed that time — surrounded by friends, running wild, pushing every boundary, learning new things without much thought for consequences.

The silvery light dissolved and blended into another color — a soft, velvet pink. Henryk already knew what that meant. The moving picture showed Henryk in his twenties, and Flora, his wife, the woman he had courted relentlessly, until one fateful night when he played the piano and she sang, and from there the music carried them somewhere else entirely. Christopher was transfixed by the shifting image, glowing threads curling like silver wire woven together into an enchanted picture, all conjured by the wondrous melody.

Flora. How he missed her. How he regretted that foolish quarrel between them. The renewed longing for her opened a hole in his chest that only widened further. Pain crept between his fingers. His joyful playing slid into something darker than the storm outside. The glowing picture faded into a dim, meaningless light; the beautiful sphere twisted into a strange, shifting mass. Still Henryk kept playing. Christopher’s expression shifted to a hesitant smile as the picture came into focus. The mournful melody froze Henryk’s heart more thoroughly than the rain outside ever could. Every mistake, every failure, every disappointment, every piece of his broken heart lay bare before his grandson’s eyes, and still he could not stop playing. It seemed now that he was under the melody’s spell rather than the other way around.

Beyond the hard memories and the disappointment, there was Flora. Her eyes were clear and bright, exactly as he remembered them the last time he’d seen her. She looked at him with a smile that melted something in him. He wanted to take her soft hand and kiss her wrist, but his fingers were bound to the piano, which demanded payment for all those years of silence.

Suddenly Flora came closer. Henryk’s heart skipped; with every note her body moved with a dizzying slowness. He knew it was only a vision, and still his heart ached. Now she was within arm’s reach — her hand settled on his forehead, and suddenly he felt cold. The melody faded as her voice echoed through him.

“I missed you, my love.” She kissed his forehead. A cold sweat spread through his body. He still owed her a song — that last song he had never played, because of one foolish argument. Was he paying that debt now? he wondered. Behind Flora stretched green grass and trees; lush greenery and a river framed the scene behind her. Henryk only wanted to be beside her, to be with her there, rather than alone in the green field. He felt that without her there was no one — and there never would be again. A tear slid down his cheek, and he felt cold. Only now did he understand the depth of the void she had left him drowning in when she went.

“Come with me. Just the two of us, you and I.” Her hands stroked his cheeks, and the deep cold turned to a bone-freezing ice. Henryk wanted, with everything in him, to go with her. He was reaching for her hand to go when he heard that same chirpy voice as the door opened. The voice sounded a little broken.

“Grandpa, no! Don’t go!” Christopher seemed impossibly far away, and yet his voice rang out firm and steady. Tears streamed down the boy’s face, and the sight cut Henryk deeply.

“Grandpa!” he called out from a distance, and every cry hurt more than the last.

“You promised me! You said you’d play the piano for me! That you’d do the magic!” Flora pulled at Henryk’s hand.

“You promised!” Christopher’s voice cracked. Henryk froze at Flora’s touch. He drew back slightly and looked at her with sorrow. He knew he would miss her terribly — but he understood that someone else needed him now. Someone to whom he still owed a promise.

“Please, forgive me.” He kissed Flora gently and stepped back. She nodded, smiling peacefully, and dissolved like morning mist on a clear day. His fingers returned to the keys, pressing them without pause, trying to bring the warm light back to color his life and Christopher’s sad little face once more. A few seconds later, Henryk finished playing. He buried his face in his hands and broke into uncontrollable tears.

Suddenly he heard a voice, far away.

“I forgive you, my love,” it whispered sweetly. All at once Henryk felt a sharp pain tear through his side and he collapsed to his knees. Christopher vanished. So did the piano. The whole house folded into a black hole before his eyes. Henryk gave in to the pain and closed his eyes.

“Grandpa!” a voice called from beside him. Henryk opened his eyes and was startled to find himself in a hospital bed. Christopher was there, crying, worried, hugging him far too tightly. His daughter stood beside them, tears in her eyes.

“What happened?” he asked in a whisper.

“You had a heart attack after the meal. The doctors said you really fought to come back to us. I was so scared...” She hugged him and wept. Henryk lay there, dazed. And before he could even gather his thoughts, Christopher leaned in close to his ear and whispered:

“That was the most beautiful magic I’ve ever seen. I want you to play for me again.”