In Paris, a young boy wanders the streets. He isn't poor, nor unfortunate, but he is not greatly gifted in the household he was born into, either. He is the only man of his household, and his poor mother works so hard to bring his family the food and supplies they use every day. He has a few sisters, some younger, some older; all of them, beautiful people in his eyes. He only wished there was more he could do to help his family.
He tried his best to always be mature, and level-headed. He tried so hard to live up to the name a man gets when they come of age, but it seemed that every day he played this character who lived by his name, he felt more and more empty. Every day, at some time, whenever he could fit it in, he would visit the old playhouse. There hadn't been much activity or interest in the building for quite some time, and every now and then, an elder resident of the town would tell him stories of its former grandiuer. He did not want many people to know, but the lives that the former residents of the old Opera house lived intrigued him greatly.
On rainy days, he would spend his time exploring the corridors and vacant rooms in the vast building, always taking someone with him to help him keep his sense of direction, but when the days were bright and shiny, he would come alone. He had taken a particular liking to a certain room. It was a practice room of sorts; rather small, yet cozy, with a piano along the back wall and a lot of things that the young boy was yet clueless as to their purpose. It was in this room that he had found a primitive sort of flute. It was made of wood, straight and short, with six holes on top and one on the bottom, and an angled hole where the sound would gain a whistling tone quality. It was more of a child's toy than a professional instrument, but whenever he would come, he would play it. He never dared to take it from the room, however, for he was embarassed to have such an interest.
It had been a good day; the young boy had recieved many kind smiles and enlightening praises from those whom he aimed to please, and left early in the afternoon to visit his favorite room in the old playhouse. He had for a while figured out how to play a rather intriguing melody, and labored each day to further it in its length and sound, trying to improve on the day before each time he played. He was particularily pleased with his work today, and felt in the best of spirits, when something strange happened. In the middle of the song, the piano in the back of the room began to play. The boy stopped and stared, dumbfounded for the better part of a minute, and listened. The tune was very similar to what he had been playing, and continued on where he had always left off! The boy dropped the flute in dumbfounded horror, and fumbled at the door, finally opening it, and ran out of the building screaming into the falling night.
He never stopped, and did not look back, until he was safely inside his home. He buried his face in his mother's chest and cried his poor little heart out.
"Little Matthew, what's the matter?" His mother asked, very confused.
"It's the ghost, Momma! The ghost was playing the piano!"