‘Old piano’s always struggle to hold their tune,’ her Grandmother said, plunking away at the keys with twisted fingers. ‘They’re like people. It doesn’t matter how many times you practice, age always takes a little something from you in the end.’She hit a sharp and flinched. ‘Your Grandfather was always the better player. He could tinkle those keys like they were made from his own fingers, and your mother, well she was just like him. Gifted is the word. Utterly gifted.’The notes fall flat and she stops. ‘Some days all I can hear is that music. Drifting, always drifting away.’




  1. I’m assuming the typos were intentional, but I’m not really understanding why. Whatever, I can agree with the grandmother’s sentiments.


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