Untitled Story

The flowery wallpaper was peeling, dusty cobwebs hung from the corners of the room and next to the window was an old woman playing a piano, its keys yellow from years of melodies; a memoir waiting for someone to give it back its voice so that it can sing the story of the past again. Her fingers were dancing gracefully, her eyes closed and her body swaying, completely inebriated in the music so beautifully inundated with nostalgia and ineffable emotions. The only source of light came from a golden lamp on top of the piano. The long shadow cast behind her belonged a lady much younger and fair. One who was rather flippant and didn't realize how fortunate she was to be living and not merely existing.

She remembered that his hand felt damp and cool in hers. He had been strangely silent that night and avoided looking at her, his eyes distracted and distant.

Piano

English: A small plate with a serving of mashed po...

Potato mash, as served in the Swiss mountain resta...

She was silent and numb with anguish as he released her hand. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. She already knew. His eyes had told her, his hands had told her. The wind whispered melancholy and rushed into wounds of the heart. Her foolish hand beseeched him to stay, reaching lifelessly towards him. She never looked up once to see the only man, who she had truly loved, walk further and further away from her life.

Trust is the most beautiful crystal but the also the most fragile. It shatters when tempered with lies and mistakes. It shatters. Then, no matter how hard you try to pick up the broken pieces and try to glue them back together again, there will always be cracks buried deep within some pieces can never be recovered. He had taken all the pieces with him, leaving only guilt...