There used to be music here. When the floors were polished and the french doors were silent.

You can bring the music back, by playing the phonograph or Steinway in the corner.And when you bring the music back,the room comes back with it.

By playing a tune, a period tune, the water stains dry, the curtains turn vibrant and chair legs mend.

Ivy clears from the windows and doors. Outside even the shrubs become kept and badminton games set up on the grounds.

Ghosts, society elites of their days, form in the doorways and lean on the mantle. They drink their mint juleps and laugh 'round the piano.

Dressed all in white a spirited game of croquet is played on the lawns whilst a young couple whisper around a statue naked of everything but her smile.

But end your piece and the scene changes.

Ceilings crack, mirrors fog and the chandelier overhead screams rusted at every passing breeze.

The grass dies, fading while baroque cherubs disintegrate from their gilded luster to finally a muddied urine.

You hold that final, sacred note, trying so hard to preserve the moment. Then finally, your hands raise off, the piano strings snap and the scene has ended.