In the parlor there’s a baby grand piano, covered with dust. I sit down at the bench, lift the lid from the keys. I am about to play a chord when I realize that Bill would probably disapprove. So instead I raise my camera and snap a shot of the dusty ivories, another of the yellowed copy of Beethoven’s Für Elise. “How long’s it been since someone last played this piano, do you think?”
He shrugs. “A long time, I guess.”
As we wander from the room, I do not notice the keys begin to move, silently, on their own.