Sarah finally reached the stage, her face a mess of tears and terror. “Stop it, Randall. You have no right.”
She tried to pull Terrence away from the piano, away from this ghost who had just walked into their lives.
But Terrence didn’t move. His small hands were still resting on the ivory keys, as if drawing strength from them.
“My father?” Terrence’s voice was small, but clear. It cut through the tension like a single, perfect note.
“My father wrote that?”
Randall Voss, the great pianist, nodded, still on his knees. “He did. And he played it better than anyone I have ever known.”
The question he had whispered into Terrence’s ear now hung in the air, unspoken but understood by everyone.
“Where did you learn to play like your father?”
Terrence turned his head toward the sound of his mother’s ragged breathing.
“The tapes,” he said simply. “In the attic. The ones in the shoebox.”
Sarah let out a choked sob and buried her face in her hands. The secret she had guarded for nearly a decade was unraveling in front of thousands of strangers.
Leave a Comment