I stretched my fingers out. Looked at them. Watched them flex under my skin.

They were itching. Not in an actual, I want to scratch them because, physically, they itch.

I could imagine it upstairs. Sitting there. Alone. Waiting for me. I imagined the room. The white carpet. The beautiful huge windows. The light of dusk filling the space. I wanted it to start raining. Pouring. Sure, it’d make the room a little darker. But the water, dripping down the windows, which took over almost the entire wall. Actually, a couple of walls.

I love the windows.

I imagined sitting there. My fingertips touching the smooth, cool surface. I could almost already feel the way my chest would fill with breath just to let it go. How the whole, empty house would fill will the music. The music I made. With my voice and with the piano, bending underneath my fingers. The words I wrote spilling from the depths of my lungs. The rain adding to the noise.

Oh, how I wish it would rain.

Either way, I’m going to have to go. I need to play the piano now. When there’s a piano in an empty house…

Goodness, how can anyone say no?

Plus, I just heard thunder.



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