Flights of Fancy

The Days That'll Never Come

It starts slow, as if unsure. The pain seeps through his veins, moving along his arms, his hands, eventually coming to the tips of his fingers. Slouching, he sits on the black piano bench by the bay window. Drawing up the final drops of strength left in his body, he plays the piece one last time. The keys sing mournfully under his fingers, the sound resonating in the tall, spacious room. The music sheet in front of him is covered in blotches and ink smears, and the black pen that made them lies on the white floor. As if with sorrow, the notes dance together, filling every crevice of the room, embracing the memories created in this space. The harmonies escape through the open window into the night sky, dive down fifty-six stories into the oncoming traffic and disappear under the wheels of cars.
In the highest room of the building, the player begins the crescendo, climbing higher and higher to the peak of his sentiment. His eyes have long dried and all that remains are the tell-tale streaks down his face. But those will soon be gone too.
The final notes roll down from deep within his heart and down his arms, finding rest in the keys of the piano. Unsteadily, he wills himself upright. His soul aches, a feeling so heavy in his chest that he is afraid he will lose his balance. The music still echoing inside his mind, he stands on the ledge of the tall window pane. The cold air envelops him as he faces the lights of the skyscrapers ahead. There is only one way to move in life, he thinks, taking a step into nothing. And that way is always forward.