The beautiful notes of each key sang throughout the echoey room. She played and played, and played. The sweet, airy tone soared from the rather small black sculpture, and each note was connected by a puff of air. The petal in which she stepped on created this filling sound. “The petal makes everything sound pretty,” frustration filled her words. This piano was all that was left of her. She lost everything and everyone. All except the three room co-op she paid for from the money she earned, and simple, colorless furniture placed hastily in corners of the rather vast rooms.  She felt loss, grief, the feeling of her soul fluctuating in and out of her body, and her words and gaze were unclear. Angrily, she snapped her foot off the magical step, and the notes she played weren’t as charismatic, just the bland pitch, dull and lacked any special quality. And so, the passion and the fire she thought she possessed, faded. It was the only way she could pay the rent each month though. Slightly mad, hours she would spend alone, the wood creaked as she would crescendo, the notes pounding, her neighbors complaining. But she wouldn’t stop. There was still a spark within her heart. It gleamed, there was a pure drop of talent. And with this drop, she formed waterfalls, the soul unleashed into her works. Behind each swift melody, a story appeared, audiences worked to tears. But there was something so unsettled. Unable to pinpoint what, life’s walls crumbled around her. And so slowly it revolved and molded into her indescribable sadness. Without realization, she weaved this emotion, this betrayal into her latest piece. The petal would elongate each note, each fragment, and so she decided to instead use the pure notes, their subtlety, nothing else. The tune she created was lined with the grief. The grief of losing her family, the loss, the pain. Often her works reflected superficial values. Of course every musician has their reason, their aspect on behind what is created. Convinced her previous compositions were not genuine, all her hours were devoted to forming a meaningful work. And so this emerged, a melody true to her, the minor chords with no other way to create any disguise, every pitch formed from the tears trapped in her eyes. She never dared to play this in public, though. A well-recognized pianist growing mad. She paid for her house, earned hundreds of thousands of dollars. But the loss. The purest of losses restrained her from spending this money on luxuries. The resounding piano given to her at five, every note, every gesture exerted from what she once felt in her joyous life.