She played the piano because it was the only thing left that she could do; once she stopped she was empty, lifeless. Every day was the same, playing over and over and over, but it was better than that darkness waiting for her every time she stopped. They had no idea what was wrong with her, why she could do nothing but play. Doctors came and went, poking and prodding at her like she was some experiment. She hated that. Sometimes she told the old man who kept her to send them away when they arrived, he used to object saying that they had come so far and they just wanted to see. She didn’t really care for their wants or their needs, they wanted to put her back into the darkness, and she wouldn’t have them doing that again.
She was normal until her mother died. A child who ran and danced, played under the trees in the garden of their old house. The laughter stopped when her mother left. Then the playing began. Slowly it became everything, slowly the world evaporated and she remembered nothing but the old man who brought her food and carried her to bed once the darkness consumed her. She was sick, but not with an illness that humanity could cure, for humanity had not caused it. There was something inside her, something that nobody quite understood, something that made her play. She could not control it but it was always there in the background; it was the phantom that haunted her every conscious moment. It made her play.
There was, there is, nothing but the piano, the phantom, and the old man. Her world is empty.