The Decision to Play
I sat at a piano meant for tourists. The keys were damp, weighted by the city’s humidity. As my fingers rested on them, I felt a bridge forming—a thin one—between past and present. I began to play the opening riff of “Rain on Basin St.” By the third time through, my wrists loosened. By the fourth, it had become my sound. Someone paused. Someone lowered their phone. Someone nodded silently. In a city I didn’t know, with a version of myself I didn’t yet know, something had undeniably begun.
The First Guest
The following week, I rented a small space. Once an old antique shop, all that remained was a narrow room lined with dusty display shelves. I propped up a cardboard sign that read: “Blue Finch, Again.”
The first customer was an elderly woman with a bent back. She glanced up at the sign, her eyes filling with tears. “Eve’s place?” she asked softly. “I used to dance here when I was young.” Her shoes tapped gently against the worn floorboards. I opened the score, slowing the tempo just enough to meet her past halfway.
