The piano arrives in a flurry of dust and sound; a symphony of creaking floorboards accompanied by the grunts of the movers as they haul the great beast into the front room. Its new owner cannot see his instrument, but he can feel the warmth on his face of the afternoon sun pouring through the great bay windows and bouncing off its shiny surface. He traces the curves and edges of its lean shape. He lifts the heavy lid and touches his fingertips to the taught strings within. His hands find the brass letters bolted above the keys. His lips form the piano maker’s name. Cantio.

 

An old Weber, the piano he had bought at the very beginning of his career over half a century ago, now hides in the corner, waiting to be collected. It has ever been an honest, reliable friend, but ever since the flood that almost swept away his last home, it hasn’t been the same. The piano suffers an ailment he cannot cure, no matter how much love he has poured into it. The only thing left was to find another, and the very same night that he had chosen to forsake his oldest friend, the name ‘Cantio’ came to him in a dream.

 

Now, he sits before the silent piano and rests his hands lightly upon the new keys. Those of his Weber have impressions from the repeated passing of his fingers over the years. The room behind him is silent and empty, yet he can almost hear the bated breath of a long-departed audience in that silence. He presses down on the middle C. A clear note echoes about the room. It has a gentle tone – not too sharp, but not so muffled that he must be firm. A perfect balance. Perhaps he will not miss the Weber so much after all.

 

He performs for ghosts long into the night, feeling the passing of time only in the shift in temperature from warm to cool, and the slight dimming of the shadow world behind his eyes. He plays until his fingers are stiff. He allows the final notes to fade into midnight, keys still down pressed, and then goes to bed with a smile.

 

The weeks go by without incident. The Weber is dismantled and taken away, but he has already given his heart to the Cantio. Never before has he felt so alive in his music.

 

It happens in the thirteenth week of his owning the piano. He chooses a duet to amuse himself, knowing he will only hear half the tune with no partner to supply the harmony, but enjoying it all the same. Halfway through, there are keys played that he has not touched. The missing harmony joins his own melody. He takes his hands abruptly from the instrument and the music stops.

 

The room feels less empty than before. He turns his head to the side. Has someone slipped into his home? Is he not as alone in that big room as he thought? There is a bell above his front door, and the floorboards creak beneath the lightest tread, yet there is only silence. He waves his arm in the air, hoping to catch whoever matched his duet; he only touches the air and feels foolish. He tells himself he imagined the whole thing.

 

But when he strikes up again, the harmony is there from the start. For hours he stops and starts, hoping to catch the other player out. He places his hand on the depressed keys the partner has just played and finds nothing but air.

 

He does not continue after that. It is late, and his mind is surely playing tricks on him, so he returns to his bed and spends a restless night dreaming of ghosts. Even when he wakes, he does not touch the instrument – not that morning or the next. The weeks pass and the house stays caught in silence.

 

Until the piano tires of the quiet and starts a song of its own. At first, he thinks the intruder is back. But when he stands right in front of the keys to block whoever is playing, the music continues.

 

He has the piano taken away. It performs until the movers return with their loud noises, and once they are gone, he lies on the bare floorboards in the spot where the Cantio stood and hears its music still.