Upon reaching the golden house perched on the hill, the driver gently stopped the car, and I felt a surge of emotions rushing through me. The landscape was picturesque, a world away from the hustle and bustle of New York City. The house had an old-world charm, its stone facade softened by time and vines. I took a deep breath, feeling the crisp mountain air filling my lungs. It was a visceral reminder that I was far from home, yet somehow, I felt drawn to this place as if it held a piece of my own story.
As I approached the front door, memories began to flood back, unbidden but vivid. I remembered summers spent here long ago, with laughter echoing through the rooms and the smell of fresh-baked bread wafting from the kitchen. But those memories were tinged with the bittersweet knowledge of why I had left and why I had locked that door in my heart.
Opening the door, I was greeted not by silence but by the gentle strains of a piano melody, a tune I had not heard in years but knew by heart. It was one Richard used to play as a boy, his small fingers dancing over the keys with the kind of careless joy only children possess. Following the music, I found myself in a sunlit room where a man sat hunched over an old piano, his back to me.
