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Our Music Room

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My friend and I have a secret room, it’s in the school, but we go there when nobody is looking. Nobody ever notices that we don’t go to class, nor does anyone really care what we do. It’s not as if we do anything bad in there, it’s just the music room. Everything echoes off of those sleek walls, and we sit in there, silently.

Well, at least, I am silent. I could play the piano, if I wished to, but here, I don’t want to. Because I listen, He plays…

He borrows instruments from the room. I often find myself wishing that I owned an instrument so it could possibly be graced by his hands. He played everything, but what he played the best was the violin. He fixed a broken violin before my eyes, and it played the sweetest music I had ever heard before.

The first time he brought me to the room, he ended up apologizing for making a spectacle of himself. Of course, I didn’t mind. Not at all. That became the main thing I looked forward to in a day, just sitting and listening to him, taking in the wonderful music that played from his hands.

And one day, he asked me to play for him. He sat me down at the piano, and waited there until I played for him. He had made me nervous in the process, but I managed to play the best song I knew, and he liked it. I saw him look at me the way I often looked at him, with sweet admiration.

I didn’t play for him much after that, though I knew he loved to hear me play. And every day, we sat and listened to each other. We hardly held real conversations, but we were friends, and we loved one another’s company.

But sadly, one day, he didn’t come to school. I couldn’t get into the music room, because he had the key to it. I sat outside of the room, and hummed softly, to a tune I knew he liked to play.

The key was taped to the door the next day, but he still wasn’t there. I went in, and played the piano much as I used to for him, and found the violin that he played so often, just looking at it. I wondered where he had gone off to.

I wish I could have seen it sooner. I wish I could have seen the sadness reflected into his music. He never returned to school.

I never really recovered from that. It took a while for me to even find myself able to go back to that room.

The day I went back, the old violin that he had fixed was the first thing I ran to. I picked it up and tried to play it, mimicking his motions until I learned a few notes. I was awful at first, but you have to be a beginner before you can become great.

I learned to play because of him. First it was just a small song, then it went on and that was what I did every day. I went into that room and played the songs that he used to.

I’ll never be as good as him, not even close. But I’ll never forget him, or what he gave me.



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