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I sit in the corner of the grand room, my wooden frame worn yet sturdy, my ivory keys yellowed by time. Once, I was the heart of this home, my melodies filling the air with life. Fingers—small and delicate, strong and skilled—danced across me, coaxing music from my very soul. I knew the touch of joy, of sorrow, of love.
But now, silence stretches between my notes. Dust settles in the spaces where music once lived. The hands that played me have grown older, or perhaps they have moved on. I see the world through the flickering candlelight that barely reaches my polished surface, through the changing faces that pass by without stopping.
I remember when laughter echoed through this room, when children banged on my keys in wild, chaotic delight before learning the delicate art of playing. I remember late nights when soft, mournful melodies spilled from my strings, the weight of someone's sadness pressed into me with every hesitant note. I remember the grand performances, when my voice soared through the air and made hearts tremble.
Now, I sit and wait. Perhaps one day, a curious hand will brush away the dust, press a hesitant key, and awaken the song within me once more. Until then, I listen to the silence and dream of the music I once knew.
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