He found the music store he was looking for. But when he got there, he saw that it was closed. A sign on the door said they had moved to a new location. Marcus sighed. He was tired and did not want to walk more, but he had promised himself he would get that keyboard today.
He walked around the block looking for another music store. That is when he saw it: a large showroom with big glass windows. Inside, he could see beautiful pianos—grand pianos, upright pianos, all kinds of pianos. The sign above the door said: Harrington's Fine Pianos.
Marcus stopped. He stared through the window. His heart began to beat faster. He had not been inside a place like this in over 40 years. He had avoided them on purpose. It was too painful. Too many memories.
But something pulled him toward the door. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was just curiosity. He did not know. But he pushed the door open and walked inside.
The showroom was beautiful. The floors were made of shiny marble. The walls were painted a soft cream color. Crystal lights hung from the ceiling, and everywhere he looked, there were pianos—beautiful, magnificent pianos.
Marcus felt like he was in a dream. He walked slowly, looking at each instrument. He could smell the wood and polish. It was a smell he remembered from long ago, a smell that brought back memories he had tried to forget.
The salespeople in the store looked at him. They saw his dirty clothes and old boots. They saw his rough hands and tired face. They whispered to each other. One young woman rolled her eyes. A young man in an expensive suit shook his head.
"Should we ask him to leave?" the young woman whispered.
"Let him look," the young man said. "He will leave when he sees the prices."
Marcus did not hear them. He was lost in his own world. He walked deeper into the showroom, and then he saw it.
In the center of the room, there was a piano that took his breath away. It was a 1920 Steinway Model D, a concert grand piano. It was black and shiny. The wood was perfect. It looked like it had been made yesterday, not over a hundred years ago.
Marcus walked toward it slowly. His eyes were fixed on the piano. He had played a piano just like this one a long time ago, in another life. He reached out his hand. He wanted to touch it, but he stopped himself. He was afraid—afraid of what he might feel, afraid of what he might remember.