He met her after his final stage. He was the Prodigal Pianist and she was introduced as a fan.
They hit it off instantly.
She was a huge support to him, and she loved it when he played for her.
He still remembered how they would laugh together, and she’d kiss him and run away, giggling.
She loved to be chased, and he would always oblige, his arms catching her around her slender waist and spinning her around to kiss her willing lips.
The day they were wed was the best day of his life, and they lived in bliss for five years. Five, beautiful, wonderful years.
When they got the news of her illness, it was already too late. She spent so much of her time in the hospital, and he no longer played.
She knew her time was close, and he brought her home so she could be comfortable. She knew it was her time but he refused.
She wanted him to be happy, she wanted him to love.
She wanted him to play.
He pushed her wheelchair into their music room on her request, but as he sat down on the stool, his fingers wouldn’t move. He just stared at the keys blankly, his mind only on his beautiful, kind wife.
She urged him to play, she begged, tears in her eyes, yet he could not.
He lifted his hands, pressing gently on the keys, and he heard a small satisfied sound from his love.
His fingers began to move, dancing across the black and white, moving so fast that they became a blur.
He played and played, and he saw his wife in the corner of his eye relax.
Her eyes closed, her lips parted, her soul gone. Beautiful, even in death.
He played and he played and he played, his fingers becoming numb, but still, he played on.
He continued to pave the way for his wife with his melody, his loving, heartbroken song until he could play no more.
He curled his numb fingers into fists when he finally saw his wife’s body slump in the chair.
He screamed as loudly as he could, slamming his useless hands into the keys that she loved so much.
He stood and closed the lid.
He would play no more.