Short Story "The Second Concert"

The old upright piano had been quietly accumulating time in the corner of the stone house. In the dim lamplight, fine cracks ran across the piano's wooden body, and the yellowed keys told the story of how they had not been touched for a long time. Everything in this room seemed somewhat dull.
Outside the window, a cobblestone alley lined with winter-withered trees stretched out. This was a small town in Northern Italy. In this quiet town, I spent my days alone, abandoned by music.

It had been three years since I closed the piano lid. I could not forget the last concert, even if I wanted to. The stage was a small hall in Milan. The heat of the lights and the gaze of the audience weighed heavily on my back, and the moment my fingers, stiff with tension, slipped on the keys, the melody that should have resonated lost its sound and shattered into pieces. The silence of the audience was cold, and I was painfully aware that I was a person without musical talent.
Since then, I had not touched a score or a piano. Even if I wanted to touch them, I couldn't. The scene from that time was etched into my mind, and just remembering it made me breathless. Having quietly put a lid on music, I packed my belongings into a single trunk and moved to this small town as if to escape. I believed that even if music were gone, I could lead a peaceful daily life in this town, which was filled with beautiful and brilliant nature.
Life in this town, where no one knew me, was very calming. I didn't watch television, nor did I play the radio. Bound by nothing, hearing no one's voice, I simply enjoyed my freedom. However, there was always something like a large void deep in my chest. Life just flowed quietly. No matter how much time passed, that hole would never be filled. I hadn't been abandoned by music. I just didn't have the strength or the resolve to face it. As time passed slowly, that fact pierced my heart deeply. Still, I felt pathetic, empty, and endlessly regretful that I was unable to face it.
It was yesterday that a letter arrived for me.

---I want to hear the sound of your piano one more time.
I, too, want to give one last performance. Together with you.

Seeing the sender's name, I gasped. Giuliano. A classmate from my university days and a first-class violinist. The person who taught me the beauty of music for the first time in my life.

---You'll be surprised to see me with a cane. But I believe you will welcome me with a smile.

I heard that Giuliano had been struck by illness two years ago. It was a year after I had moved to this town. I should have gone to see him immediately, but at that time, I couldn't bring myself to meet him. I had abandoned music; I didn't know what kind of face I should wear to go see him. No, that's not it. He had won first place in international competitions and his recitals were always sold out. His success was so contrasting to the performance I had given that I was actually incredibly envious of him---and since then, I hadn't been in contact with Giuliano even once.
I don't know if it was because of his illness or simply because of the surge of emotion. The letters seemed to tremble slightly. Yet, from them, I could feel a somewhat calm and resolute tone.
That night, I couldn't sleep. Clutching this letter, I stared outside through the cloudy window. There were almost no shadows of people walking in the alley, and the only thing I could hear occasionally was the sound of the wind passing through. The sight of the small, shining stars in the deep navy sky was very beautiful. The brilliance of the moon, peeking through the gaps in the clouds, was very dazzling. Something was moving quietly in my chest. It was a sensation I had forgotten for a long time.
Before I knew it, I had rushed outside. I ran through the dark night streets with few streetlights and caught a taxi. And then, I stepped into that university classroom. There, the grand piano I had been playing on the day I met Giuliano stood all alone.
There was only dim light in the room, and the air was cold. The silence of the night enveloped me. When I exhaled, white smoke rose. I slowly opened the piano lid and brushed off the dust. When I touched the keys, the cool sensation traveled to my fingers. That coldness reminded me of my former self. There was a fear of making a sound, but at the same time, a premonition that I could regain the strength to play it again.
I began to move my fingers slowly. The first note sounded too weak and raspy. Even so, the sensation transmitted to my palms was pleasant, and gradually the trembling subsided, and my fingers began to move naturally. It was the moment when music enveloped me once again.
At that moment, I heard a voice from behind.
"Schumann, Träumerei. That's the sound."
Surprised, I turned around and Giuliano was standing there. Supporting his thin body with a cane, he was wearing a soft smile. His appearance was not as healthy as it once was, but his eyes held the same passion as in the past.
"Giuliano...? Why..."
"I had a feeling you were playing here."
Giuliano gently placed his violin case down and took out the violin. It was carefully polished, an instrument that showed at a glance that it was still being treated with love.
"I think this will be my final performance. That's why I really wanted to share music with you one more time."
I remained speechless and could only nod. When Giuliano raised his bow, the air in the room changed completely.
"Shall we begin?"
The sound of the violin resonated first. It was deep, rich, and carried a touch of sadness. As if invited by that sound, my fingers began to slide across the keys. The two sounds intertwined, and the melody they spun filled the room. Within the music, memories of the past floated up and disappeared. Even the bitter memory of failure had no meaning in this moment. Only the music existed there, transcending everything.

The piece ended. Silence arrived. Giuliano breathed deeply and smiled gently. That smile held satisfaction and a sense of liberation.
"Thank you. Thanks to you, I was able to spend the best night at the very end."
"The end, don't say the end. Don't say things like that. Let's do it again together---"
He said nothing. He was just smiling. Looking at his face, I couldn't get the words out until the end.

The next morning, news arrived that Giuliano had passed away. They said he had such a peaceful face that it made one forget he had been ill. His beloved violin was buried with him as a keepsake. The night after the funeral, I sat in front of the piano once more. This time, in my own room.
When I touched the keys, the melody from that night vividly returned. It was as if Giuliano were there. Music does not disappear. Even if a person leaves this world, its resonance lives on forever. The final performance with Giuliano gave me the courage to face music again.
"You are loved by music. I want you to let your piano resonate again. It's a promise."
A message addressed to me that had been left in his hospital room. In the night of the cobblestone town, as I touched the piano, I felt the music I had spun with him continuing into the future.

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