For a moment, the man merely languished before the grand instrument. Then he reached out. Almost tentatively, his fingers, long, thin, almost like those of Death himself, brushed at the keys. 

And he began to play. 

The weariness, the sorrow, slowly drained away from him. Thoughts and grief flowed out in minor chords. The dour melody slowly grew, pervading the room, the hall, the wing, the castle. It reached into every dusty crevice and dark shadow, leaving no ears spared but those of the deaf. Haunting notes leaked through the stone walls, cascading as mere echoes into the village below; weeping, pouring out what little soul the man still held.

Few of the villagers noticed the music coming from afar, but those who did were unsure of what their ears perceived. So long had it been since the organ was last played that they'd assumed the castle's master to have been long dead. In a sense, that much was true. For who the master was then, he was no longer.

He was alone now. Completely, fully; he was surrounded by endless emptiness. Years before at a young age he had been orphaned. It was some time after, when he was older, that he was widowed. Yet even then he was still just a young man.

Now he was old, and trapped within himself; consumed by his grief. He barely lived from day to day. 

The castle was empty now, nary a living soul to be found. The royal family dead, the last of the servants all gone... Yet if you heard that ghostly song, you might not have thought it uninhabited. Haunted, yes. You might have thought it haunted, but not empty.

Inside, his pale hands continued to flow over the keys, an old, neglected confidence seeping to the surface. He felt his burdens being washed away; he felt it all slipping. He couldn't hold on any longer. He didn't want to hold on.

The music shifted; a change so subtle that you would not have noticed it unless you were consciously waiting for it. A final chord, so simple, yet so beautiful, rang through the following stillness. It was a major chord, happy, content... The man then leaned away, his eyes having long since slid closed as he drifted on somber waves. 

It was long past time to move on, to let everything go. He lay on his side on the padded bench finding comfort at last. A final sigh of relief slipped from his parted lips; the last of the sorrow melting away.

It was done.

And now the castle was truly empty.

Empty, save for the grievous memories. Memories that there was no longer anyone left to remember.

--------------------------

The idea for this one came to me during choir. So, naturally, when Cindy told us to stand up and the music started, while everyone else was singing, I was writing. I was standing there awkwardly with my notebook in my hand, scribbling furiously and trying to sing at the same time. Needless to say, I gave up trying to sing and write. I just wrote.

And later when I told my friends about it, all three of them said the exact same thing: "Oh, that's what you were doing." The funny thing: I told them all separately. So there was no collaboration, nor some silly conspiracy, on their part. 

Till next time!