Monica gestured subtly, her finger to her lips, a gesture both soft and firm. I'm here as a music lover. Don't say anything," she said quietly enough for Blake not to hear, but just loud enough for Jordan to understand. Blake turned to Jordan, raising an eyebrow. "You know her?
Is she a guest of the school?" Jordan hesitated for a moment, then shook his head, not lying, but out of respect. "No, I just thought I'd seen her somewhere." Blake snorted as if the answer only confirmed his bias. He walked over to the piano, running his hand across its surface, pretending to scrutinize it for damage, then smirked.
Fingerprints. Maybe the technician should be reminded about who's allowed to touch the piano. Monica's gaze turned cold in an instant, but her response was as light as a breeze. A piano is for playing, not just for admiring. Blake froze for a moment.
Not because of the words, but because of the way she looked at him, neither humbling herself nor angry, as if she had encountered hundreds of versions of him. Before, and no longer found it frightening. "Are you a teacher?" He asked, glancing at her name tag that she didn't have. Monica shook her head, then slowly lowered the lid of the piano as if giving it one last gentle caress.
Number I used to be a student, but then life told me to take a break. Blake laughed a short dismissive laugh. Ah, one of those I almost made it stories. We hear them all the time at my school. Jordan tightened his grip on the clipboard.
He was about to say something, but Monica raised her hand to stop him. She didn't need anyone to protect her. Not now. Mr. Reynolds, she said his name deliberately.
Maybe one day when you're actually able to play a piece that makes others go silent to listen, you'll understand. No one truly owns a piano. The only one it belongs to is the one who can awaken it. Blake opened his mouth to retort, but he didn't get the chance. A logistics staff member called him to prepare the practice room.
Monica turned back to look at the piano one last time, then walked off the stage, but no one knew. At that moment of being dismissed, a spark had ignited deep within her. A fire that had once been extinguished by illness, poverty, and prejudice. Now it burned again, not for revenge, but to play the unfinished piece of her life. The stage door closed behind Monica, but the echo of the small collision between her and Blake Reynolds still reverberated in her chest.
Not because of the sarcasm, but because she had responded. She had opened her mouth, stood tall, and said what she believed, something she had learned to hide for the past 30 years in boardrooms, fundraising calls, and dinners with the elite, where every. Word was carefully measured. Just one piano key. As her hand rested on the middle C key, the pure solitary sound rang out into the vast space.