At the age of one, her voice was cruelly stolen from her. Now, five years later, as her mother’s getting ready for another one of her concerts, she stood idly by, watching her father’s fingers brush across the keys ever so softly as her mother belted each note. As her mother sang the final note, her father smiled and got up from his seat. “You want to try, my dear?”
She smiled shyly and took a step back. Although she had lost her voice, she became a rather gifted pianist. She picked up fast on her father’s techniques and by three, she was playing Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, etc. “I don’t want to disturb your and mother’s rehearsal.” She signed.
“Oh don’t be silly, dear.” Her mother said, “You know the music as well as your father.”
“Come on my dear, it’s going to be you playing for your mother one day.” What did father mean? She wondered as she sat down on the bench.
Her mother cleared her throat, “Shall we start from the beginning?”
I am participating in Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writer, where we write a piece between 100 and 150 words (more or less 25 words) in length inspired by the photo prompt above.