Man at the piano: A one hundred-word story

The man eyed the curled grey hairs on his knuckles; a curious strand stood above the others. He sat down on the bench with the royal padding and caressed the old Fazioli piano’s black marble finish. He pulled out the white cloth he kept in his pocket and rubbed it over a smudge. Then with his eyes closed, he began to play Chopin’s Nocturne. It was one of her favorites. His hands danced across the keys like a young couple under the moonlight for the first time. He swayed gently along with the notes, as tears fell on withered hands.

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