Note: No proofreading (like usual...), written in an hour.
The dangling bell resounded in the nearly silence of the little store, covering for a brief moment the classical music playing in the background, as the door was pushed open for the first time of the day. It was still early morning though, and the employee, that had taken his shift only half an hour ago, now sat behind the counter entering stock data in the old crappy computer in front of him, jumped on his feet to welcome the eagerly expected customer, greeting him cheerfully.
"Good morning! May I help you?"
The music shop was close to bankrupt, but the old man that owned it made a duty to hold on until the end, which would probably happen very soon considering the inexistent sales made the last few months. It has never been very prosperous, barely covering fees and suppliers invoices, merely bringing enough to live to the old man. Even now, he kept his employee although he didn't exactly have enough to pay him, but the boy loved the place, and since he was provided a room upstairs and could share the owner's meals everyday, he considered himself lucky enough not to go.
He'd been on the streets for years before he got hired here (he suspected the old man gave him the place out of pity more than everything), so it was no big deal that he couldn't afford more than a few inexpensive hobbies, being fed and having a warm bed to sleep in was more than he could have expected from life, he thought.
It's sad what a stray cat's life can make to a young man's ambition...
The woman... girl... the employee couldn't tell her age, he hadn't really seen her face, hadn't replied to him, silently sitting at the large piano enthroned in the middle of the store, taking most of the space.
A huge grand mahogany Pleyel, lovingly dusted and polished by the employee every saturday. An old granny, as the owner said, "and you always treat old persons with respect, because they carry the tracks of time, and have stories to tell, that you could benefit from".
The redhead knew every scratch, every stain in the ivory keys, every detail of the carved wood on the inside. Many times, he wondered if the stains were tears... of a lover turned away, crying his pain in a heartbreaking melody...
Or sweat of a musician losing sleep over his practice, fingers aching, pressing the keys in a pre-concert frenzy...
But most of all, he wondered about the little "M" engraved deep in the mahogany, far from anyone's sight. An "M" that you could only see if you really looked at the piano, if you were trying to read its history. If you cared.
It was in the wood, just before the first key, probably not more than a quarter of an inch high, at the base of the cover.
Since his name was Mail, he had imagined many stories about owning the old granny in other times, or maybe, it would be his someday. After all, who would take care of the grand Pleyel better than him once the store closed forever?
Oh, he didn't know how to play piano, but he knew how to make it happy... With time, Mail was persuaded that old grannies had a soul of their own. The old owner had played Chopin... one day, Valentine's day, as a young man offered a red rose to a very pretty young woman, just in front of the store. And she had laughed and let the rose fall to the floor before turning around on her high heels. How could such a beautiful instrument not have a soul when the notes, the melody, Tristesse, had completely swallowed the instant, the sadness, the almost audible heartbreak of the young man, feet stuck to the floor by the intensity of the pain he was feeling? Damn, Mail could have sworn the keys had cried the notes.
Slender fingers raised the cover, and soon, an index caressed the letter engraved there, without hesitation. Mail straightened, half shocked, half eager to see better. Was it less hidden than he had imagined? It slightly cracked his stories and dreams about the instrument, and he felt suddenly less special.
Blond hair swayed lightly as the woman bent over the keyboard, and as her hands reached the ivory, Mail held his breath. Customers weren't allowed to touch unless they wanted to buy, and no one had ever considered buying this piano, ever. Mail wasn't really sure about the reason why the grand Pleyel had ended here, something to do with a rich family being murdered or something, he could even swear he had heard the old man utter the word "Mafia", and the old granny had ended in the closest store. But the price was dissuasive anyway. A potential buyer for such a masterpiece, created more than eighty years ago, was unlikely to enter the little store. So it stayed here, barely used, only when the old man's arthritis allowed him to play a few minutes.
Now the fingers, long and pale, were running along the keys, and as Mail decided it was time to end this, the first note swallowed his protest, making it impossible for him to go on as the second, third notes resounded.
Liebestraum. Liszt.
And Mail felt his chest constrict, because he'd never heard the old granny sing happily. He had imagined the instrument felt how loving his hands were when stroking the wood with the silky fabric, how caring he was as he caressed every inch of the surface. But he'd never heard it like this.
Never had he imagined that you could make love to a piano. But it was exactly what the blond was doing right now, fingers pressing and caressing like a lover with a virgin, careful and yet daring, pleasing and getting pleased, on a high, out of reach.
It was only... him, and the music.
Him. The blond was a boy. His age even. Mail had approached, his feet moving on their own accord, and he was now scrutinizing the beautiful face, waiting for those eyes to open. But the blond boy was lost somewhere far away, carried by the melody, the loving reverie he was playing not on, but with the grand Pleyel.
It was a long time love, a burial of the past, a happy day of reunion, and Mail suddenly felt left behind, and he wasn't sad. How could he be with the granny expressing joy so clearly?
He'd been the one taking care of her, who knows what would have become of her had she been abandoned?
And years of care had made her able to express herself today. Like a lost cat you feed and groom until it can find its owner again.
The player stopped, the last note still lingering in Mail's ears, and as ice blue eyes settled on him, he knew he'd been crying. The long, pale fingers reached for the wet lines on the redhead's cheek and a thumb erased them.
The granny had told her story, lulling the blond boy in a melody of loving care she received over the past years, the notes clear and bright, the strings not faltering once, perfectly tuned, the wood smooth and shining, not a single dust remaining, not even in the hidden curves of the little "M"...
She had said how much she'd been waiting, how her wait had been made bearable by those young hands treating her like the most precious thing in the world, how she was happy to sing this love song again, with the one that loved her.
But that she had now two lovers, and the blond boy shouldn't be sad, because her heart was big enough for both of them.
"What's your name?" The blond boy asked, his fingers still touching the redhead's face, now cupping his cheek.
"Mail..." It was barely a whisper.
"It couldn't have been another letter." The statement was seriously spoken, as if an evidence, "Mihael. My name's Mihael."
Note: Yes, I ended it here. First, because whatever I could have added would have been cliché. Second, because I want your own imagination to work. Third, because there will be a sequel. Maybe.