The Final Keys

When The Music Died

Photo by Robert Dickow on Unsplash

The old piano played on as the old man’s fingers slowly danced across the keys with finesse and grace that belonged to a man 50 years younger.

The clear notes carried across the white walls of the large empty room and echoed against the closed doors and windows. It was a tune of awakening, written from a history that scarred his face, and if his shirt were off, scarred his back.

The piano was no better. The last of a dying breed. The lone survivor of the Artless Ages. A cruel time. A time of silence and war. A time when moments existed only between explosions. A time of death. Destruction. Wounds. Scars.

Its old keys were worn with age and the wooden curve creaked with every key the old man played. His eyes bright as he was transported to another world. Another Age. An age before the white walls that held him prisoner and the bright lights overhead. An age before the white overalls he wore and when his back had been straighter, sturdier. An age before she died, and he lost everything…

The tune was slowly growing sadder, as every note got quieter and his eyes shone brighter still. His face was a mask of grim determination as the music made its way to his fingers and into the piano.

Together, they were a pair lost in time. They had lost. They were alone, yet together. And together, they were beautiful. The melody rose, the tempo rising, the keys played louder and louder as tears streaked down the man’s scarred face and into his grey beard.

This was the last time he would play. And he could feel his soul pouring out of him as each note followed the other. The very essence of him translated into the crystal clear vibrations that rent the air.

The song slowed down, as his chest heaved with the effort. His hands weren’t what they once were. A warrior’s hands.

And the music stopped.

And hands came to help him off the stool. They asked him questions but he couldn’t see them. He couldn’t understand them. The light that shone from his eyes was gone now. Replaced only by a haze as he looked into the distance. No words came from his lips, he hadn’t spoken in over thirty years. He only came alive for those keys. Those keys that reminded him of her. And she…

He was too weak to walk on his own. And so they carried him out. From a piano that would never be played again. To a room that would be his last.

No music would play within those white walls again.

And soon, though no one knew it yet, there would be silence.

For a long time.

He had protected them, as best he could. And now he was gone.

Excerpt from Archive: The Death of Petrius Talch, The last pianist of the Fifth Age. Submitted by Archivist 2336 for review.

Addendum: Publication into Core Archive Denied.

#Death #Dystopia #Fiction #Music