This idea has been in my head for a while now, and I was finally able to put it into words. I myself play the piano, so I can sympathize with Lumina to a point. It's just a short little oneshot, hope you all enjoy.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, not Harvest Moon, not Fur Elise (by Beethoven), and not Gesu Bambino (by Pietro A. Yon).
At night, when the sky gently pulls the sun beneath the horizon and tucks it in with an array of beautiful colors, and then lulls the rest of the world to sleep with a deep blue sky and sparkling stars, I would gently pull my pearl-handle brush through my hair as I stared back at my reflection in the mirror. I would study the anatomy of my visage; my smooth, round face; my innocent, hazel eyes; the soft curve of my nose as it turned up slightly; my pale, salmon colored lips. I would study all this, and my hand would slowly drop from its brushing position next to my head, and my eyes would start to sparkle and gleam as the light hit the tears forming, and I would wait -- wait until they filled with that salty liquid, and then watch them go spilling onto my pale skin. The tears would come silently; no wailing or loud cries of anguish ever accompanied them, and I would watch as they flooded down my face, and I would wait until they stopped. Always punctuated with a loud sigh, I would wipe the moisture from my skin and then dry off the back of my hand on my nightgown, and gently pull myself into my bed, and eventually, into another world.
My dreams were always pleasant, though they had no reason to be. Once I closed my eyes and entered into their realm, my dreams would greet me with images of beautiful, towering castles and valiant, regal knights as they rode on their faithful steeds that were as beautiful as they. Chocolate waterfalls and peppermint trees, gumdrop mountains and marshmallow clouds as far as my mind's eye could see -- an atmosphere of peace and tranquility; these were the things that graced my thoughts once I slipped out of the real world and into my dreams.
There he would ride, up and over the sweet mountains and beyond the mint forests. Always he would stop right beside me, with a dimpled smile and deep pools of chocolate brown eyes, so hypnotizing, I could drown in them. Always he would dismount from his noble steed and land merely inches from me, his gaze never breaking away from me as he confessed his undying love for me. His lips would then brush mine, and we would be locked in a loving embrace, stopping only for breath when it was necessary. When we pulled away, it wasn't because we had to; it was because we wanted to, so we could stare into the other's eyes.
At that moment, my mother and father would appear on the horizon and call to me. "Daughter," they would say, their eyes full of love, their arms open wide. "Our child, come to us!" I would break away from his protecting hold, and promise to come back, only to run to their loving embrace. Hugging them both at the same time, I would drink in their scent as I felt their strong arms around me. They would run their hands up and down my back in an affectionate rub, and say, "Lumina. We're never leaving you again. Come home with us where you belong." I would snuggle deeper into their hold as I felt the tears come once again. I would break down and cry, my knees weakening as I dropped to the ground, my head spinning as I lost control. The tears would come, and I would weep, because I knew it was just a dream, and when morning came, I would have to wake.
When the sun came back from its journey to the other side of the world, it would peek through my shaded window and dance upon my skin, trying to wake me in the most amusing fashion possible. When it landed on my face, my eyes would open, and I would stare into the expanse that was my room. Never did I wake up with swollen eyes or a stuffed nose from crying. Those tears didn't follow me into reality; rather, they stayed in my dreams. But every morning I would remember my trip to the dream world, and recount the little differences that I encountered this time that I hadn't last time, and recall the similarities between the two times. Always there was something to add to each list.
Pulling myself out of bed, I would brace myself for the reality that is my life, and look forward to but one event of the entire day; practice time. For it was then that I could escape reality, escape my dreams even, and enter another dimension that was purely the music and me.
When the time came, I would gently sit on that old piano bench that creaked slightly every time I rested my weight on it, I would silently run my fingers along the ivory keys, reaching up every once and a while to grace the ebony ones with the same privilege. I would then take out the sheet music and open up to the very first page that was dotted with those black markings; notes that told me and my fingers where to go, what to do, how long to press down on the piano and with what manner to do it in. The letters, often in the beginning a pp, later joined by a mp, that eventually evolved into an f or even an ff, told me how loudly to play and when to change the volume, either up or down. The dotted notes, dotted quarter notes, eighth notes and sixteenth notes; they all spoke to me as well, whispering their directions to my mind as my fingers made their way across the smooth keys. No longer did my mind have to make the intermediary step of reading the notes and finding them on the piano; my fingers knew where each dot lived. The one that graced the first line in the clef, that was right there, I would think to myself as I touched the corresponding key on the piano. And the one on the next line up, that was just two up. The sharps and flats, marked always at the beginning of the song and changed only with accidentals, were my particularly favorites. F, I knew, was always the first note to be made sharp in a song; if there was but one sharp, it was always F. B, I knew, was the first note to be made flat; if there was but one flat, it was always B.
Smiling, I would tell myself that no matter what happened in the rest of the world, there was one world that would remain unchanging, and that was this world; the world where the first sharp was always F, the first flat was always B, and that dot on the treble clef was always right there on the piano. Eighty-eight keys there were, and there would always be. I would position my hands according to the song, take in a deep breath, and begin.
Immediately I was catapulted into a world of bass clefs and melodies, sharps and flats, rests and staccato notes, sonatas and E minors. The unique sound of the piano would fill the room and the rest of the old, empty house as my fingers moved gracefully up and down the keys, playing expertly and with almost no fault. My problems were all left behind in the harsh reality of my world; my parents, who were no longer alive, did not grace my thoughts; the cute farmer who I had had a crush on for a long time, and the memory of him passionately kissing Muffy at the New Years' Party flew from my mind and I could play in peace. The notes comforted me, the forte's empowered me, and the soft effect of the damper pedal soothed me. When I played, I poured my heart into the song, longing to hear the effect my emotions had on the beauty that was Für Elise, or the tranquility that was Gesu Bambino. I would slide and gracefully fall off the eighth notes, onto the dotted quarter notes, and parachute safely down into the comfort of the stern but loving bass clef.
This delicate instrument, this large structure of wood and strings, ebony and ivory, was my comfort, my escape. When I played, the music would swirl around me, and lift me into another place that was full of emotion, but no crying; full of reverberating sound, but no anguishing cries. I would forget that I was an orphan living with my old, eccentric Aunty Romana; that I was eighteen years old and had never been kissed; that I lived in a town where something interesting happened once in a blue moon, and there was no way I would ever rise above this place -- except in one way, and that was through the music.
At night, when the sun is gently being tucked in again in the endless cycle of time, I pull my pearl-handle brush through my hair as I stare back at my reflection. I study the anatomy of my face, and when I reach my eyes, they shimmer and shine; not with tears, but with the magic of accomplishment. When I pull myself into my bed at night, my dreams that were once pleasant with no reason to be, are now delightful. Because now when I sleep, there are no more knights in shining armor that offer me empty promises; there are no parental figures that tell me to come with them when they know it is impossible; it's merely me and the music, as I swirl and twirl with the graceful comfort that is my piano.