When God Played Piano

He came in the middle of a hot, dirty summer. The kind where the ground stuck to your boots and the air felt like a thick soup. Nothing was paved, just mud and flies. And the trees... they were more like gallows. Men hanging, swaying like broken wind chimes.

That’s when God came.

At least, that’s what some folks started calling him.

He didn’t look special. Just another scruffy traveler passing through. Average height, dusty clothes, eyes dark like he seen too much. Hair greasy. Smelled like old meat and sweat. But what stuck with you was that scar—thin like a spider’s leg—crawling down from his lip to his chin. And the bullet hole in his chest, still bleeding when he showed up.

Turned out the body he was wearing belonged to some no-name fool who got shot for talking too much. Nobody missed him. Nobody even noticed when he died just outside town. The preacher buried him quick in a shallow grave. Said a few words, crossed his hands, that was it.

But something crawled inside that body before the dirt could settle.

God, maybe.

That body rose and walked into town like nothing happened. Even the same cowboys who shot him didn’t recognize him. Why would they? He was nothing to them. Just another killer. One who once rode into town holding two severed Indian heads, screaming he got ‘justice’ for some dead Irish travelers. But truth was, he didn’t kill for justice. He liked it. Liked watching life drain from something’s eyes.

God, or whatever was inside him, didn’t say much. Just went into the saloon and ordered a drink. He sat there quiet, listening to the piano player.

That man folks just called him Piano Man had been playing in that place for decades. His back was bent, his fingers stiff, his ass full of sores. But man, could he play. Since before he could walk, he’d been hitting those keys. It was like the music lived in his bones.

He’d come to Gravemountain when it was just tents and campfires. Scared outta his mind. But he stayed. Survived. Kept playing. When the town grew up, his music became the heartbeat of the place.

God watched him for a while. The saloon was full of every kind of sinner you could think of drunks, thieves, preachers, whores, gunmen. But it was only Piano Man who mattered.

One night, God stood behind him, put his hands on the old man’s shoulders, leaned in, and whispered something.

Piano Man gasped. His eyes shot open.

And just like that, the pain left him. His back straightened. His fingers stopped hurting. No more arthritis. No more numbness. Like his body had been rewound.

Then God said, “Play.”

So he played.

Man, did he play. He smiled, big and wide, like he hadn’t smiled in years. Fingers flying, music pouring out of him like water from a busted dam.

At first, the drunk cowboys sang along. Then more folks came. Then even more. The bar got so full people crowded at the windows, just trying to hear. The whores stopped working. The bartender stopped pouring. Even the gunslingers laid down their pistols.

God slipped out somewhere in the middle of it, disappeared into a room upstairs with a working girl.

But Piano Man? He kept going. Played like he’d been born to do it. Never stopped. Never got tired. That song... it wasn’t even from Earth. It felt holy. Like hearing the sound your soul makes.

News spread. People came from all over. Rich, poor, black, white, Chinese, Irish, didn’t matter. They came to Gravemountain to hear that song. And when they heard it, they stayed. Something about it made life before seem pointless. Like it all led to that moment.

For eleven years, Piano Man played.

And people waited.

Waited for God to return.

But God never came back.

Still, Piano Man kept the song going. He didn’t age. His hands stayed strong. His eyes still sparkled when he hit the keys. The whole town became one. One mind. One sound. One faith.

Then, one day, some traveler showed up. Looked different. Off. Like he carried a shadow with him. He shoved his way through the crowd, angry for no reason, until he reached the piano.

He watched the old man play.

And something in him snapped.

He pulled a pistol, aimed it at the back of Piano Man’s head...

And pulled the trigger.

The music stopped.

For a second.

Everyone froze.

But then... the music came back.

Piano Man was still playing, even with a bullet hole in his head, eyes rolled back, blood dripping. The music was messy now, off-key, but it was there. The stranger panicked. Grabbed the old man’s head. Slammed it into the keys again and again.

CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

Blood splattered. Bone cracked. But the music didn’t stop until there was nothing left of the old man’s face.

Finally, the man stepped back, outta breath, thinking it was done.

But the people...

They just stared.

Then their faces changed. Twisted.

They rushed him.

Tore him apart. Literally. Limb by limb.

Hung him up like a warning.

But the music never came back.

Their song was gone.

God never returned.

The town fell apart after that. They waited eleven years for God. And now that the song was gone, they lost their minds.

They turned on each other. Greedy. Violent. Sick.

Every time someone new came into town, they’d hope—maybe this one would bring the music back. And when they didn’t...

They killed them.

One by one.

Over and over.

Hoping to hear that song again.

But they never did.

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