The piano stood in the corner of a darkened room, a magnificent being subjected to repose by some higher power. A fine layer of dust blanketed everything in the room, a testament to years of unuse.

The piano may not be able to speak, but he remembered. He remembered happier times, when the room with its paintings and bookcases and him was bathed in light and even lighter laughter of the people inside. He gave all to the family, and the family gave their all to him, pouring their laughter, their sadness, their loss, their life to him, and he turned them into song.

he may have not been able to speak, but he sang. He sang waltzes, Top 40s hits, and even obscure works from new composers. He sang life, and he sang love.

The piano creaked and groaned, trying to create even the smallest snippet of melody from his memory. All he could do now is to play the melody of silence, the loneliest and most beautiful melody of all.

He was a loyal Steinway baby grand, a beauty varnished in ebony wood and smooth ivory keys. A natural born smooth-talker, and an even smoother singer, he worked great with others, and helped them sing to the highest that they could go.

And now the piano remembered an even sadder yet happier time, a time where he could speak and suffer alongside one person. That person was a friend, a creator who wanted to play for money and understanding.

The piano wanted to help him as much as he could. He really did. He stood stoic when the player's fingers wouldn't run, offering silent encouragement to put the fingers on the keys, and try once again. He opened himself, letting the boy play and play to his heart's content.

Even through this suffering, he was happy. They were happy.

And then it stopped. Abruptly, like a sudden shift in tempo. Everything stopped, and the room, with its paintings and memories, laid to rest, deigned to an eternity in dust.

Maybe he had found a better friend to laugh with, to play with, to suffer with.

And so, the piano, with his burnished ebony wood and ivory keys and silent strings, continued his melody, now a symphony, of silence.