No matter how many pianos those fingers touched, nor how many rooms had the music they made echoing from their walls, the little church where they’d first played in public always had the best acoustics. Those fingers flew faster than they had back during that time, of course. And were much more skilled. But some of the joy with which they met the keys was missing. The sound they made was more subdued somehow, more melancholy.

It wasn’t the same piano she’d sat at years ago, a much newer model than the one she’d first made her debut on. Still much older than the ones she played at concerts in front of massive audiences. But though this new instrument had a much clearer sound and was more in tune, she missed the old one fiercely. The one that had grooves worn into the middle edges of the keys from her own fingers and the many that had come before her. 

The congregation she’d played for too had changed. New or missing faces, or a few more wrinkles among the adult members. To her chagrin, she’d found one on her own face a few days before. The joy playing for these people hadn’t changed. Smiles reflect back at her or mouths open to sing along, voices joined to the tune her fingers set. Maybe that was actually what she missed most. It had been too long since she’d played here.

Music wasn’t about being technically perfect, though she didn’t enjoy hearing her fingers find the wrong note. It was about being shared. Not just losing herself in the moment, or in the sound she could create. It was about knowing that what she created was so wonderful, it compelled people to join in too, not just applaud at the end.