A Chord of Silence

This short story piece reflects on memories and attempts to use strong visual imagery.

As I crept down the creaking stairs of Grandfather’s basement, a musky scent seeped from the shadows. Hundreds of unknowns awaited me in those dark corridors. The air filled with the scents of dust and neglect. A light switch dangled from the ceiling, emitting an eerie glow once turned on. Antiques, souvenirs, and random everyday objects were enclosed around me in a thick layer of dust. As I picked up an old trophy that read: Track and Field Semifinalist 1933, a stain of dark red rust obscured my hands. In one corner, a bookshelf standing around eight feet tall held masses of books, each one smelling almost prehistoric. All paths converged at the end of the dark hall, leading to a bewitching, grand piano.
Unlike all other objects in the basement, the piano's surface looked untouched by time and dust. Its keys still looked pristine and had an inviting nature that begged me to play. The wooden bench enchanted my eyes with its ornate patterns, drawing me closer and closer. The glossy black finish of the grand piano gave off a faint glow, powered by the dim, humming light at the entrance. As I began moving closer, a chill was sent down my spine, warning my body of the unspoken unknowns. Why was it seemingly perfect while everything else was engulfed in the dust of old age? The piano possessed a mystique that both drew me in and lured me away. I needed to sit down, I had to sit and play- “Sweetie! What are you doing down there? It's time for lunch.”
My grandmother is an unrivaled chef. Her cooking reflects her sweet, nostalgic qualities that make me love her so greatly. Lunch that day included a golden-brown grilled cheese sandwich, apple slices with cinnamon, and, for dessert, a freshly baked slice of pumpkin pie. My grandmother has been my best friend ever since I can remember. Nobody else ever wanted to be my friend, saying I was, “Too interested in the past.” My grandmother, or Gram, as I call her, has always understood my fascination. Her patience and understanding of me likely came from her long relationship with my grandfather, who died of a stroke less than a month ago. My family always knew about his obsession with collecting mementos of the past, but we never quite knew just how vast his collection was. I accepted the task of exploring his basement with pleasure after everyone else refused. The basement was Grandfather’s playground with his most prized possessions and was off limits for everyone, even Gram.
After I finished lunch, the piano gravitated me back downstairs. I sat my plate down on the sleek marble table, my mind still attempting to decipher those unanswered questions. As I stood, thoughts of the piano flooded my mind, urging me to play. I thanked Gram for lunch in a mumble and started on my way back down those creaking stairs.
As I walked down the stairs again, I began to wonder what Grandfather felt like. How did he manage all those lonesome nights spent in this eerie space? What did the piano mean to him, and where did he find it? Did he sense the same secrets and unknowns hidden beneath all of those “treasures”? I wished I could’ve simply asked him instead of wandering face-first in the depths of the unknowns.
I hesitated one last time halfway down, the voice of reason in my head fighting against the irresistible pull of the grand piano. The loose paint of the stairs grated against my shoes, producing a sharp squeal that shook my bones as if a warning to turn back. As I clicked the light back on, the low hum and faded glow served as a shaky pathway that led straight to the piano. My palms began to sweat. My eyes fixated on the grandeur of the piano sitting in the shadows. Only the beating of my heart broke the silence. My feet pulled along the cold concrete like nails on a chalkboard, slowly inching me toward my final destination. My mind fought valiantly against the pull of the piano, begging my body to follow suit. Instead, my legs wobbled towards the piano as I finally sat down on the spotless, chilling bench. My hands began exploring the designs on the bench, tracing them with my fingers smoothly. The patterns sent a chill down my spine and increased the steady beat of my heart. The shadows were watching, beckoning me to play the first note. The piano seemed to draw my hands closer until they were almost resting on the keys. The whole world stopped, anxious to see me play, awaiting my final move. Whispers and murmurs echoed amongst the rows of objects and ghostly eyes pried into my thoughts, just as I pressed the first note.
Silence. A soft glow began spilling from the piano, lighting up the shadows. My hands became glued to the keys, playing melody upon melody. Sounds began seeping through the edges of the piano, filling the room with whispers that were vague yet somehow familiar. The more I played, the louder the whispers grew, finally becoming familiar. It was Grandfather.
His powerful voice began pouring through each note I played, filling the otherwise silent room with memories of the past. Untold secrets penetrated through the piano, and the soft refrains began to tell the stories through each press of a key, unlocking the secrets of generations before. As I pulled my hands away, the piano kept playing, jamming my mind with the wisdom of centuries. One soft tune revealed a sweet memory: A younger Grandfather, holding an artifact he had found at a yard sale. That must’ve been where his love for the past first began. His voice rang out from the piano with new memories as I continued. On and on it went, never ceasing until one last chord rang out. Then, silence once again.