The Girl at the Piano

The Girl at the Piano

By Lenia M.

Every morning, as a child, before school, I used to sit at the piano and play. I sometimes sang, too.

The urge was there from my youngest years. I played because I couldn’t help not doing it. I sang because the music was there, and it had to come out somehow. I was perhaps nine or ten, and full of something I didn’t yet have a name for. With music…that’s how I had to start my mornings.

Our upright piano stood in the hallway of our family home in Nicosia. It was a grand instrument, snd it was mine, in the way children claim the things they love. The keys were yellow with age, the two huge candlesticks stuck on it hanging down on me, well, that is how pianos were made then…the pedal squeaked when I pressed it but somehow, it was perfect for me. The hallway had tile floors and such an echo that everything sounded beautiful. Even my voice had a richer timbre in it there.

Just across the road was a block of shops. I often noticed a gentleman arriving unusually early, well before the rest of his employees. He was tall, gentle, always smiling, with a calm kind of look about him. I didn’t realize at the time that he was renting one of the shops from us. I only knew he often glanced toward our open door as I played and sang softly my voice mingling with the piano notes. His window was always open. I used to wonder why, until that day.

It was one of those cool, quiet mornings, and I was halfway through a Greek popular song I had heard on the radio. On that particular day, the melody flowed out of my mouth as if it belonged to the morning itself.

Suddenly, I heard the rush of slippers. My mother ran from the kitchen into the hall, drying her hands on her apron, panic in her voice.

“Stop playing! Stop the singing!” she scolded, waving her hands as though trying to put out a fire.

“The man came to work—you’re driving him crazy!”

I froze, confused, embarrassed, and a little ashamed. I hadn’t meant to disturb anyone. My fingers rested softly on the keys. My voice disappeared into silence.

Then we both looked up and to our surprise, saw the man gently leaning out of his window.

He smiled, and in a tone so kind it softened everything, he called out across the quiet of the morning:

“Please, Madame Maria, don’t stop her. I come early just to listen to her singing and playing the piano. It gives me such pleasure.”

My mother stood still. She blinked. She had no reply. She was so stunned!!! So was I!!!

I think, in that moment, she saw me a little differently not just her young daughter making noise, but someone who could give joy to another person. Someone who might just have… a gift.

I sat down again at the piano, this time filled with a different kind of joy. And I sang, not just because I had to, but because someone had been listening. Someone wanted to hear me.

I didn’t know I was that good. Not then.

But Mr. Symeonides did.

⸻

Author’s Note:

Sometimes, the first person to believe in your gift isn’t a teacher or a parent, but a kind stranger who simply hears the music in you—and chooses to listen. Their encouragement may be quiet, but it stays with you forever.

This is a true story from my childhood. I used AI to help me refine the structure and language, but the story, memory, voice, and emotion are entirely my own.