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I am a copywriter and digital marketer. @ Adekunle Ajasin University
Lagos, Nigeria
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The Piano Room
<p><br></p><p><br></p><p>Margaret wandered through the halls barefoot, her fingers trailing along the wallpaper they’d once picked out together—soft floral patterns, faded now. Like everything else.</p><p><br></p><p>She hadn’t touched the piano room since Henry died.</p><p><br></p><p>They used to play together, every Sunday evening. He on the keys, she beside him with tea, sometimes singing softly, mostly just listening. His music was never perfect—he’d always miss a note or two—but it was warm. Human. Home.</p><p><br></p><p>After the funeral, she shut the door.</p><p><br></p><p>For three years, the room waited.</p><p><br></p><p>Today, something called her in. Not a sound—there were no more sounds—but a feeling. A tug in the ribs. A breath she didn’t mean to take.</p><p><br></p><p>She turned the knob and stepped inside.</p><p><br></p><p>Dust floated like ghosts in the morning light. The room was untouched, preserved in grief. His slippers still by the bench. The metronome unmoved. A music sheet half-turned, as if he’d be back any minute to finish the melody.</p><p><br></p><p>Margaret sat on the bench. It groaned beneath her, remembering.</p><p><br></p><p>She pressed a single key. It rang out thin and brittle, like a voice from far away.</p><p><br></p><p>She tried another. Then a chord.</p><p><br></p><p>It was clumsy. Hesitant. The piano, like her, had forgotten what it meant to be played.</p><p><br></p><p>But she kept going.</p><p><br></p><p>The tune came slowly. A waltz he used to hum when cooking breakfast. She got the notes wrong. Her hands trembled. Her breath caught.</p><p><br></p><p>But it was there. Beneath the dust. Beneath the ache. The sound of him.</p><p><br></p><p>A tear slid down her cheek as she reached the final note—and missed it.</p><p><br></p><p>She laughed softly. It cracked.</p><p><br></p><p>And in that imperfect silence, for the first time in years, she didn’t feel entirely </p><p><br></p>
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