@riverguides gets a starter.
She can't help but feel like an intruder. An interloper. She didn't know these people, or this house, or anything in it -- it was all foreign, and she felt like an invader. It wasn't that they hadn't been gracious, and welcoming enough. It was just clear that they were all on edge. So was she, so that seemed ... fair.
Desi had been secreted away upstairs for hours. She'd seen the woman, Wren, briefly. And Amos had come down once or twice. She was fairly certain he'd been making up excuses, just to make sure she was still there. She'd grown restless, and had wandered through the downstairs rooms. The study, the games room, the massive kitchen and pantry, living room and a few, what she guessed to be, guest bedrooms by their general feel of lack of lived in. They were cozy, but there were no personal effects to be seen.
And then she'd found the library. But it wasn't the massive amount of books, old and new, that could've filled an actual library, that caught her attention. It was the black grand piano that sat in the middle of the room. While it wasn't dusty (nothing in the house was), it felt ... abandoned. Lonely. She found herself hesitating, when she grew closer to it.
It had only been .... five days? Six? She'd lost track of the nights and days since the accident. Her hands hadn't held an instrument since. Some part of her felt anxious, in a way she couldn't quite name. She was something else now, wasn't she? Something different than who and what she'd been before. What if this new ... body of hers, what if it had forgotten? What if the years of muscle memory and training and the hours and hours and hours of practice were just ... gone?
She sat, hesitantly pulling open the cover over the keys, fingertips gliding feather light over the ivory and black. A lifetime of memories. Of practices and lessons and rehearsals and performances. Would she remember them, in ten years, in twenty? In a hundred? How long before all the memories of who she was now were just ... gone? A deep breath is drawn in, fingertips poised over the keys. Lashes sank closed, and she let herself feel. Feel the ivory beneath her fingers. Feel the pedals beneath her toes. Back straight, shoulders straight. Find the heartbeat. Find the rhythm. Hear the music.
She loses time, in a way that she finds comforting. Familiar. Music flows, fingers dancing across the keys like they were made for it. Perhaps they were. One song ends, and another begins, until finally, minutes? Hours later, the last soft note is plucked, and held by the pedal, humming softly in the air around her.
