All four windows were smashed in. Chairs were turned over, couches ripped to shreds, and the cat placed on a high shelf where it mewed piteously. And what they stole... it was so trivial. A throw from the master bed. A sterling silver necklace from the second jewelry box. A single rose from the massive bouquet on the front table. All things that we never would have missed, if they hadn't wanted us to. The living room, we were told, was their point of entry. A place to take out their anger. We were told that thieves are often angry. Everything in it was overturned or smashed on the ground. The darling divan from Milan, ripped to shreds- it would be worth nothing now. The only object left untouched was the piano. It still perched majestically in the middle of the room, meant to draw envious eyes rather than eager players. The music book on top of it had been opened and placed, lovingly, on its stand. The normally dusty cover shined, and we knew it had been drawn back. The vase on top still held its bouquet of daisies and tulips, and there we found the red rose. The police scoured the room, analyzing every tattered silk pillow and gold-plated book. But they never paid any mind to the piano, did not search for fingerprints, because what thief would notice it without ensuring its destruction? The piano itself never drew their notice, but its disappearance two days later caught their attention. The grand spectacle was gone, the music and the rose left on the floor. Their search never did turn up. We grew bored of it soon, and finally just bought a none one. And we assumed that they didn't return, that we were safe, our house as secure as we had paid for. We didn't notice when the rose disappeared, too. Off to follow the piano.