Ms Henderson

Does she even know that I’m here? I suppose not, at least she isn’t showing it. All that attention and focus for her playing, for the piano. I don’t suppose she notices any of the rest of the world. I wonder if she knows what day it is, what year even.  I would ask her, but she does hate being disturbed. The playing itself is beautiful; such harmonies are rarely so perfect when formed by one so young. Yet there she sits, playing away the days, weeks. I’ve heard that she never stops, that even in her sleep she hears the music flowing through her. She is unique in every way but still human, still emotional, she still needs love.

Perhaps the music loves her; she certainly seems to love it. Does it compare to the depth of human emotion? I’m not sure. If only she would look this way and answer all these questions. I do not wish to cause her any pain, I simply want to know. I had a love for music in my youth but it was nothing compared to what I see now in Elise. Gerald worries greatly about her; mostly about what will happen when he can no longer care for her as he does now.  Perhaps that’s where I come in; I would help if she would let me. I doubt she even knows that he has grown old, just as she is getting older herself. I don’t think he’s all too well, though he would never show her that. The dear old man has been caring for this house for so many years; he has never married, never known any love other than the love for his duty to this family. I guess he cannot miss what he has not had.

It’s been hours and she’s still playing the same song, round and round. It sounds like the Moonlight Sonata, light and yet mournful. I cannot be sure; it has been so long since I’ve heard it. I could listen to her play for many hours longer. It is truly beautiful.

The End

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