Hoshigetsu

The first time she heard the piano, she thought it was the wind. Bellflower Theatre had been condemned for nearly fifteen years, its doors chained, its velvet seats shrouded in darkness. The city council had voted to tear it down and replace it with luxury apartments. She had come to photograph the building before demolition began. She preferred ruins to ribbon-cuttings. There was some beauty in the loss.  She was admiring the beauty of the stage in the large theater when the first notes echoed through the empty space. She jumped, not realizing she had company.  The melody drifted through broken windows and settled in her chest like heartbreak. It was a love song, but it was slow and aching, the kind meant for a lost love. She lowered her camera. The music continued, each note flowed smoothly, sorrowfully, into the next. Someone was on the stage. A middle-aged man with long black hair in formal dark attire. She could hear the music clearly, yet the figure was lit only by the dim light

Every night he walks home from work. Just a few blocks down the road, the spring air rustles gently, feeling cool against his skin. The first night it happens, it’s almost accidental—one missed turn, a moment of distraction. By the time he realizes where he is, the road has already narrowed, the streetlights spaced farther apart, their glow thinner and more forgiving. Turning back would take effort. Going forward feels easier. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. He’ll be home soon enough. He’s taking the scenic route, enjoying the day.  The house waits for him at the end of a cul-de-sac, quiet and empty. Every night, when he strides up the walkway, the glow of the outside light washes briefly over the front door, the same door he once rushed through with grocery bags slipping from his arms because someone called out from inside, laughing, asking if he’d remembered the milk. He always had.  Now, the door opens to silence.  So the next night, he takes the long way again, adding another

The piano sits against the far wall of the living room, its finish dulled with age, its bench worn thin in the middle. He lowers himself onto it carefully, like someone trying not to make a sound for fear of waking someone, something, in the house. His fingers hover over the keys, unsure, then settle. The first note comes out wrong. Too sharp. He winces, adjusts, tries again. The melody is one he half-knows. Something simple. Something new. Something brought to life from grief and love. He hums a few notes as he finishes the melody for the first time. Tries a few notes. Stops, then hums softer. His hands start again, and words flow from him, smooth and sorrowful. Silhouettes appear in the corner of his eye, dancing slowly around the room. A younger version of himself, sheepishly leading a beautiful dark-haired woman in a slow waltz. She appears young, not as she was at the end. Never like that. She wears a skin-tight red dress, hugging every curve of her body. He remembers laughter