It was finally finished. Exhausted, I slumped forward against the piano, the keys beneath my arms and forehead protesting loudly in an echoing discordant cacophony. I'd finally finished the restoration of my father's last work, Don Juan Triumphant. After the fire in the famous disaster, most of the opera's score was ruined. Before he died, my father and I spent many hours working together to bring it back to life. After his death, I worked the project alone in his memory.
Reluctantly, I pushed myself off the keys and brushed back my curly brown hair to adjust my mask. According to my father, and the small wax figurine he was able to save from the disaster, I looked almost exactly like my mother, but with eyes from both parents: one blue, and one deep brown. I preferred to look like my father. My mother’s rejection had been the final straw that had cracked my father’s mind. Even in death, I still strove to keep him close to me, by wearing his leather cloak-like jacket, along with a modified version of one of my mother’s old costumes.
I'd been up for almost three consecutive days and nights, hastily and carefully laboring to finish my father's last work. Sleep tugged her dark blankets at the corners of my mind and pulled my limbs heavily down to the earth, calling me to rest. With some effort, I pushed myself from the piano bench and climbed the stairs to the circular swan-shaped velvet bed, then pulled the woven damask cord to loosen the black lace curtain to hang protectively over my sleeping form. Just before the darkness claimed me, I faintly heard the sound of footsteps echoing in the opera house’s rubble above.