The boy came to a clearing on the far side
of the forest. An abandoned piano sat in the dead grass.
It was out of tune, but that was fine—he hardly knew
the difference. At first, he played some notes just to hear them,
nothing in particular. But soon he found himself
playing the curve of his father’s belt. He played the way
his sister had looked down when she told him what
happened to her. He played what was left of his small
bag of almonds. All around him, bald trees slept.
His fingertips went numb. He played until he was no longer
playing, but was himself a key being pressed by the weight
of the pale winter day he had chosen to wander into,
having reached the end of what he could explain.