Reflections and polished surfaces

He sensed someone watching him. He shrunk away from the window. And then returned, curious. Who was looking at him? As he scanned the car park below his window, he could see nothing in the dark. Ugly orange light seemed to show up everything except his car park. He remembered the unfortunate incident that had stopped the lights from working. No one had been able to figure it out though. Which was good.

The stereo changed from Beethoven to Einaudi. He loved Einaudi even more than Beethoven. He listened to the track all the way through, before moving to the piano that sat in the corner. It was polished and very well cared for, but understated. He sat on the chair as he would have done for a performance so long ago and, straightening his back, Lazarus began to play. At first he played Einaudi pieces that he had taught himself, but quickly moved onto a piece he had written. He remembered the cherished person he had written it for.

Of course, the person whose name was faintly written on the paper was long dead. Everyone he used to know was dead. After all, he had been roaming the earth for an unnaturally long time.

As he played, he remembered his first concert. He recalled every face that had looked up at him with a mixture of passion and a vague sense of awe. He remembered his muse waiting for him in the lobby after every concert with the smile of an angel. As he thought about people watching him, he thought about the mysterious feeling that he was being watched now. Who was it? Was he imagining it? It wasn’t like he wasn’t paranoid.

Now though, he was unused to people watching him. The more he hid, the less he believed he would ever play in public again. He played for himself, and for his long dead love, now. A private audience of two, his angel and he. He wasn’t looking at the musical notes when he played, he knew the piece well enough. He was looking at the name scrawled in the corner of the page.


The End

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