One Hundred Word Story #30
He lived downstairs when I was little, hating my footsteps overhead.
I pressed my ear to the sofa whenever he played his favorite tune on piano. Wood and upholstery warmed the music that rose up, like saturated color. Even before discovering my trick, it stole something from me I didn’t want back. My awful, graceless feet offered upset in return.
I loved stories too, and understood him later in ways that ached every time someone didn't. Strange, these links to one who moved away to escape children in motion.
I searched years for Beethoven, for “Für Elise,” without clues, humming.
Photo by Kimberly Brown-Azzarello