No one dared to speak.
Upstairs, the tune of the piano steadily flowed from Cyril’s fingers, just as they always had. His eyes were not closed; he never closed his eyes while playing. That’s how, even from downstairs, everyone knew that Cyril’s eyes were still open.
Jeanne was knitting. It was a habit she had gotten into after she’d found out she was pregnant. At first she did it to relieve the stress, but as time progressed, she had found that she enjoyed it quite a bit. Cyril always encouraged her to knit, saying their son would inherit deft fingers from both parents. But right then, Jeanne was not making anything. Before her was a colored heap of yarn, stitched together haphazardly. No one would ever comment.
Elise closed her eyes, letting the bright music flow over herself. The notes seemed to dance around her mind, smiling and laughing. She hated that. It was as if the melody was falling down the stairs and carrying Cyril’s happiness with it. But Cyril loved it, and like every mother, she did not want to stop her son from doing what he loved.
Upstairs, the melody slowed to a gentler pace, taking on a melancholy tune. It was what Cyril called “sad smile” music- music that was full of sorrow, but that showed a smile through the tears. Jon couldn’t help but think it fitting for the situation. When he had started teaching Cyril to play the piano, eight years prior, he had recognized the boy’s talent immediately. He had never seen a ten-year-old play so beautifully. And nothing would make him teach again.
Jon set down the knife in his hand, picking at the wood object in his lap with a fingernail. The bird itself was already fully carved, but Jon was adding the final details. Doyle observed this quietly. He had never spent much time with Jon, never since Cyril had started learning to play. Doyle had always thought Jon was a strange, whimsical person. Now, looking back, he saw that Cyril was the same. It only made sense that Jon and Cyril were so close, despite being teacher and student. Jon was more of a friend and advisor. Doyle’s eyes flickered to his wife’s, only to find that they were closed. He followed her lead and let his son’s music take control of his senses.
Upstairs, the music changed to only two notes. Back and forth, creating a simple little tune, as if Cyril wasn’t paying attention. Everyone downstairs understood what this meant; Cyril always paid attention to his piano, and there was only one thought on everyone’s mind.
Almost.
Jeanne stopped knitting. Elise finally opened her eyes and glanced at her daughter-in-law, who reached out, needles still in hand, and grasped Elise’s hand. Jon obstinately refused to stop carving, not even looking up from his delicate work. Four other birds already rested on the table beside him.
Upstairs, the two notes became one, gently pining out from Cyril’s finger, tiptoeing down the stairs to the room where everyone let it into their ears with heavy hearts.
Bin-bin-bin-bin-bin-bin.
The piano stopped.
From upstairs, the faintest sliding sound could be heard.
Jon put aside the incomplete carving.
No one dared to speak. No one dared to move.
Slowly, so slowly, as if trying to not frighten a bird, Elise stood. No eyes followed her as she left the room. When the sound of her footsteps climbing the stairs reached them, Jeanne was the first to allow a strangled sob to escape her chest. There would be no tears from Jon. Doyle’s tears came so slowly it was almost as if they were tears of honey.
Elise did not cry yet. She entered the piano room and gently pulled away the bench. Without hesitating, she went down first to her knees, then completely to the ground, lying on her side. She embraced Cyril’s body, holding it close. Still, she did not cry.
She would not cry until six years after that, when little Quinn stumbled into the piano room, and his small fingers clumsily tried to play his father’s piano.