What the Keys Remember

You don’t know what pulled you into this thrift store. Maybe it was the cold that tore through your coat, or perhaps you just wanted to be somewhere no one expected you to be. The store smells old, like mothballs and memories. Your boots seem to awaken the store as you wander through the aisles, littered with racks of clothes and household items from yesteryear. Your fingers graze the items, recalling memories that don’t belong to you.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see it in a corner, like it’s hiding—a piano. 

It’s upright and old; the wood has dulled, color fading into what you would call neglected. The keys are yellowed, a few missing, but you wonder how long it’s been since someone pressed them. You want to. You almost don’t. A voice in your head tells you it’s junk, like much of the stuff in this place. You turn to leave, but your fingers pull you back. Your hands hover close enough to feel the history before they fall into a familiar position.

A sound escapes, hesitant, almost squeaky, but it’s there—a note. Your eyes move frantically, searching for something on their own, your mind catches up and you find an old chair. Your weight causes the chair to let out a C flat. You run your fingers over the keys, testing them. Some respond, others don’t. You know this piano’s story is hidden beneath the dust. Somewhere in this corner is history. You feel the story needs to be told.

An employee watches you from behind the counter, curious and quiet.  You offer to buy the piano. It’s overpriced, but you don’t care. You pay extra to have it delivered today. Your breath floats through the crisp air as you direct your new acquisition through your back door. It doesn’t quite fit flush against the wall, but neither do most things in your life right now.

You fill a bucket with water and soap to wash away the years the piano has seen. You spend hours on YouTube and Amazon, learning about tuning and cracked hammers. You spend your nights working, each small fix feeling like victory. You play a full scale, and your neighbors bang on the walls. You laugh. The first laugh in months. 

You take three months to restore the piano. You come home from work every day and sit at the bench you purchased. Tinkering, adjusting, testing. Some notes feel shaky, but the piano begins to sing its story. You start to sing, too. The words come as you play notes that don’t form melodies. 

The following Sunday, your door is slightly open, the cold air and someone’s dinner flow through your house. You start to play, soft at first, a melody that feels like it belongs to another piano. To other fingers. To another man. 

You hear a knock, then see a face. A neighbor asks if they can listen. Another follows, then another. Soon, your kitchen is filled with the strangers you once passed with only a nod. You smile as they hum along, moving to the rhythm. They dance. The silence you carried for so long melts away. 

A mother asks if you'll teach her child to play. The old man from next door requests a song he hasn’t heard since he was that child’s age. The music pours out of your windows, weaving through the cracks and empty spaces, carrying something more than sound—a connection. And for the first time in years, you don’t just hear the music. You feel it. You feel whole.