The Waiting
One of those faded days the music has gone.
The dim, previously heavily decorated room was silent now. The voices of the singers and the conversations of the guests who slowly walked around the house were no longer heard. It seemed as if the house had lost its life along with the music, and the only remaining source of sound was the crackling of the fickles. The candles kept lighting, supporting the small hope that someday the composer would return and complete the undeservedly forgotten masterpiece.
Once a wreath appeared over the old grand piano, giving a nice fragrance of pitch. Soon charming lights and toys appeared on the fir branches, but their light could not melt the frost on windows, and only the piano kept waiting with patience, squeaking its wooden body.
The composer returned. He glanced round the room, wrapping himself in a coat in the hope of saving from the cold. Nevertheless, the old man sat down at the instrument. Unwillingly, he threw a quick look at the holiday wreath. The owner of the house only smiled and exhaled tiredly, looking at the small Icicles that magically appeared on the green branches.
- Winter will be over soon, if you are here," - he whispered, picking up the sheets of notes scattered by the wind and placing them on the panel. The composer touched the keys with shaky fingers, filling the room with the sounds of hammers hitting the strings.
The music is back again.
Happy holidays!
