The keys felt foreign to her—how long has it been since she last played? 5, 10 years?
Her fingers gliding, flying, cold and beautiful and strange. She thinks back on childhood memories, of recitals, long pink, itchy dresses she grew to hate, people staring up at her, expectant, smiling, and she feels wanted again. She feels on top of the world, capable of anything...
No, she feels above all that. She's not here anymore. The case, and town and the team and the mysterious world in the backside of the TV... All of it melts away as Naoto Shirogane pours her heart out, gets lost in the melody.
What was she playing? It didn't matter; whatever it was, she knew it by heart. Maybe it was a lullaby her mother used to sing to her at night, some years ago before that accident ripped them apart. Or maybe it was something inbred in her, laying dormant, waiting for a chance to be released.
Her fingers have a mind of their own, dancing over the keyboard.
Before she knows it, before she can control it, laughter bubbles up her throat, and she feels like a kid again. That kid onstage in that ugly dress, wearing a blue hat much too big for her, and looking out in the crowd. Looking for parents that weren't there. Sadness sinks in.
And then she catches her grandfather's smile—fleeting and careful and soothing like him, like her piano—and any doubt she has is gone.
If only things were as simple as before. She's been so tired lately. Her misty eyes close; she feels the music flow within her, and finds herself at home once again.