The piano’s been silent for weeks. Today it wasn’t.

I sat down at the old upright in the back room—dust on the keys, a loose C key that rattles like a bad tooth—and played the first piece I ever learned: Bach’s Minuet in G. My fingers remembered before my mind did. The sound was thin, uneven, but real. Not perfect. Not even good. But it was there. That’s enough for now. The city outside hasn’t changed, but something inside me did—just a little.