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Melody

Ziva sits upright at the black piano. Her bony olive fingers dance across the ivory keys. Occasionally stepping onto the ebony ones. She can hear the sound of a violin. Tali's instrument. She can hear the song of a flute. Her mother's instrument. These melodies have haunted her all day. Yet she is still unsure whether they are real or imagined. It does not matter. She has craved her piano. Like an alcoholic craves that precious poison. She allows her fingers to take control. Practicing a well rehearsed dance. She closes her chocolate eyes. She is no longer in her dark apartment.

No. She is in a large house. It is sunny. The sun streams through the large windows the cover the back wall. The white curtains dance in the wind. A younger version of her sits at the piano. Her hands are smooth. Not cracked and rough from holding weapons. Beside her to her left is a girl. She is in her early teens. Ziva smiles at her little sister. Tali mounts the violin on her shoulder. Her tiny fingers pluck each string. Ziva turns to her right. A woman who is perhaps only twenty years older than Ziva stands. Both girls smile at their mother. She raises the silver flute to her lips. Music commences. The curtains dance. All thirty fingers dance across their individual stages. The three of them create a beautiful and rich music piece. They play until the end of the piece. The house is alive with music. The piece ends. They stay still. Taking slow breaths. Taking in the beauty of the music. They share a smile. Their shared smile disappears at the sound of a car heading towards the house. The violin is packed into the case with the 'peace now' stickers covering it. The flute is dismantled and placed in a case with stickers from foreign lands. The flute player long ago visited. The piano is pushed back into its alcove. By the time the key turns in the door and Eli David enters. The music is gone.

Ziva opens her eyes. Tears have built up in her eyelids. An entire infantry ready to deploy down her face. She holds them back with sheer force. She stares at her piano. A lone tear on a suicide mission jumps from her eyelid. She wipes the salty drop with the swift movement of grape sweater clad arm. It does not work. Her heart wins the battle between it and her brain. Her brain accepts it has lost the battle. For her brain still believes it is winning the war. Yet the mantra of crying will get you nowhere is often spoken but never heard. She lets the tears fall. Then wipes them quickly. She lays her fingers on the piano and plays a happier melody. After all, her mother and sister did hate it when she was sad.

A/N: Hope you like.