Then he did something he hadn't done in forty years. He sat on the piano stool.

He opened the lid. The keys were ivory, yellowed with age, but perfectly smooth. He pressed middle C. It was dead. Silent. The years of neglect had snapped the strings.

When she finished, the silence that followed was different. It was not empty. It was full of applause that never came.

Then he heard it.

For the first time in a decade, the walls vibrated. The crystal chandelier tinkled softly. Arohan closed his eyes. The piano’s dead keys seemed to hum in sympathetic vibration.