The Piano in the Basement

Every Saturday morning, I sit on the cold basement steps, listening to my brother play the piano that hasn’t worked since the fire.

He plays the same tune every time. A clumsy version of Clair de Lune, with wrong notes and uneven rhythm—but to me, it’s perfect. The melody floats through the basement like a lullaby stitched with old dust and childhood memories. Sometimes, I hum along without even realizing it.

Mom won’t come down here. Not since that night.

She says the basement smells like smoke and sadness. But to me, it smells like burnt wood and birthday cake. I remember the birthday cake clearly—chocolate with blue icing. Danny’s eighth birthday. I had picked the flavor. He had wanted vanilla, but he let me choose because he always did.

Danny loved that piano. It was his favorite thing in the world, even though most of the keys stuck and it always seemed to be out of tune. We would sit side by side, banging on it like we were concert performers. Our audience was a row of stuffed animals and one very unimpressed cat.

After the fire, the insurance man said the piano couldn’t be saved. “Too much smoke damage,” he told Mom. “It’s just a dead box now.”

But that’s not true. Not on Saturdays.

That’s when Danny plays.

He never speaks. Just plays. I talk to him sometimes, and I think he hears me. He smiles now and then, or nods when I ask him questions. The first few times I came down here after it all happened, I cried and begged him to talk, but now I understand. The music is enough. It’s how we communicate.

This morning is different, though.

I sit on the same third step, clutching my knees to my chest, and wait. The air feels heavier today, like the smoke has returned. But there’s no music. Just silence.

“Danny?” I whisper into the shadows.

Nothing.

The piano stands still under a sheet of ash and forgotten time. It looks smaller than I remember, like it’s shrinking with every year we grow older.

I walk slowly toward it, the wood floor groaning beneath my feet. Dust dances in the faint light from the cracked window. My fingers hover above the keys.

Cold. Silent.

“Why didn’t you come today?”

I wait, heart pounding in my chest like the echo of a memory I can’t quite reach. And then, I hear it.

Not from the piano. From behind me.

Footsteps.

I turn, and he’s standing there—barefoot, hair messy, in the same Ninja Turtles pajama shirt he wore the night of the fire. He smiles softly.

“Why didn’t you play?” I ask, voice shaking.

“I can’t anymore,” he says.

“But why? You always play on Saturdays.”

His eyes flicker. “Because you’re leaving.”

My breath catches.

He walks past me, places one hand on the dusty piano, and sighs. “They’re packing your things today.”

I blink, confused.

“Mom said she found a new place. With sunlight in the bedrooms and no basements,” he says with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“She needs that,” I say, unsure if I’m talking to him or myself.

He nods. “She does.”

I take a step closer. “Can you come with us?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just runs a hand over the piano keys, even though no sound comes out.

“You know I can’t,” he whispers.

And suddenly, I remember.

I remember the smoke, the screams, the way the door wouldn’t open.

I remember him pushing me out the tiny window, telling me not to wait.

I remember the last time I saw him, flames dancing behind his eyes as he smiled and said, “See you next Saturday.”

My legs give out, and I sink to the floor. “I’m not ready,” I whisper.

He kneels beside me. “You are.”

We sit in silence, like we used to. Only this time, there’s no piano. No music. Just the hum of goodbye.

“Will I see you again?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Maybe in dreams.”

The light from the window grows warmer, like morning is breaking through grief. I reach out, but he’s already fading.

Before he disappears, he smiles.

“Thank you for listening.”

End