The lights were dimmed, casting a soft amber hue across the room. Dinner plates had been cleared.
The scent of warm garlic and basil still lingered faintly in the air. Artur was curled up on the couch, a throw blanket draped loosely over his knees, watching Billy move about the living room with quiet ease.
Then his eyes drifted to the upright piano by the far wall — untouched, dusted recently, but still standing like a memory. His voice came low, casual but hopeful. "Will you play something?"
Billy, halfway to the kitchen, turned. "Now?"
Artur nodded. "That night… when you played, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I didn't know you could play like that."
Billy blinked, lips twitching with a shy smile. "I barely remember it myself."
"Maybe," Artur said, his voice softer now, "but you did good."
Billy hesitated, then walked over and gently pulled back the stool. He sat down slowly, fingertips hovering above the keys.
