Tucked unnaturally into the dusty corner of the parlor, the grand piano takes center stage, posing majestically for unseen admirers. It seems not to notice the unseemly carpet of dust that now hides its once waxy, pitch black sheen. But the passage of time alone could not mask this instrument’s curvaceous figure - its slender, ornate legs holding up its massive frame with apparent ease, in bold defiance of physics’ overly restrictive laws. Like rows of teeth, the piano’s keys grin exaggeratedly, enticingly, as if to catch the fancy of a non-existent passerby. For beneath its regal dignity is the pain of many years of neglect, decay and, above all, silence - a silent scream, growing louder and more potent in an excruciating crescendo. The stagnant air is saturated with notes not played, keys not struck, and songs not sung. The neglected instrument, now reduced to nothing more than common furniture, longs to be caressed once more by loving fingers, to once more feel the powerful vibrations of a melody course through its veins - a simple chord would suffice. But still it stands, affecting the guise of poise and elegance, swallowing its sorrows, and fervently holding on to the belief that someday soon it will love again.