The heavy oak door is slightly ajar. He sneaks inside. Tiptoeing down the stairs he could hear her playing. Notes whishing through the air like a chime tickled by a soft summer breeze then stabbing at it real hard and loud. He loves that loud bit. Forte she calls it.
This time he’ll make sure she doesn’t notice his presence. Keeping his breathing shallow he slides into the armchair and watches her small crumpled fingers race up and down the keyboard.
She’d been hoping to have a few minutes to herself. Ah well. She plays on pretending she hasn’t noticed her grandson enter the music room. The little lad seems to get a kick out of being invisible and silently following her around the house.
Of course she heard him come in and she doesn’t have to turn around to see that he is now sitting in the brown leather armchair which had always been his dad’s favourite chair, too.
(C) Ash N. Finn, 2012