Come Daydream With Me

         Somewhere far away, in a musky, abandoned old house, a boy plays the piano. The sound coming from the instrument is one you wouldn't expect. The keys have browned. The wood is chipped. The paint is peeling at the corners. But the strings are straight and firm, and their vibrations carry a soft, rich sound as the boy plays. He sits on an old piano bench, and inside the bench lay pile upon pile of forgotten music sheets that have long forgotten young age. They are curled at the edges, as if the corners are trying to reach up, trying to be seen. The boy would see, but he is not playing one of their songs. There's a sheet of music on the podium before him, an unlabeled, author-less piece of work. He plays, gently pressing down on the pedal with his foot, and as he does, the sole of his white converse rub against the rotting wooden floor just under the brass pedal.
           He's watched, but he doesn't notice. He sways in time with the tune, and his eyes drift   peacefully between open and closed. As calloused hands run along pale keys, she watches from the   corner. Thick vines hang above her, creating a shadow over her. It's leaves used to tickle her cheeks, but now she barely notices. She watches the boy with curiosity. She studies him. He looks from his shoes to her own bare feet, pale against the rough wood. She mimics him as he sways, tilting side by side, making her dark hair bounce from shoulder to shoulder. She takes a step towards him, watches him.
     "Hello?"
  He does not stop playing. His fingers don't falter on the keys.
 The girl walks forward, stopping a little ways from him, and repeats, "Hello? Who are you?"
The boy stalls, only slightly, letting his fingers hang over the keys for a split second while he listens.
        Then fingertips and piano keys become one again. The girl, not hearing the music, frowns and draws closer until she's right behind him.
       "Won't you answer me?"
    Leaves fall from a sizable tree branch protruding from the roof above. They land on the ground beside the piano bench and at the girl's feet. The crinkled, dry leaves make a rough sound as they hit the wood.
     And yet the boy plays still.
  The girl chokes back a sob and falls forward, wrapping her arms around the boy's shoulders and resting her head on the back of his neck. "Can't you hear me?"
    The song slows and becomes quiet as the boy begins to play two notes, back and forth, with his left hand. With his right, he tentatively reaches to his shoulder and touches the girl's arm.
     "You're here, aren't you?" He asks, smiling.
       The girl, shocked, draws away from him slowly. The boy doesn't turn around, but puts his other hand to the piano and picks up the pace again. The girl watches for a moment, then smiles, too. She looks at the sheet of music on the podium. Of course, she recognizes it. She'd seen it many times before. She reaches over the boys shoulder and touches the sheet gently. The old, wrinkled paper folds inward slightly at her touch, then resumes it's position. The title and author have faded, but the girl knows the name of the song. After all, it was written for her.
     It's Acacia's song.
  Smiling, the girl wraps her arms back around the boy as he plays. The boy shares the smile with her, but it's a sad smile, for he knows this ghostly presence beside him will disappear when the song ends.