Elijah smiled slightly, a genuine one this time, before heading out into the bustling hallway.
The sun was already setting by the time Elijah finished his detention the following Thursday. Most students and teachers had long since departed, leaving the hallways eerily quiet as he made his way toward the exit. As he passed the music wing, a faint melody drifted through the air: someone playing the piano with delicate precision.
Drawn by the music, Elijah slowed his steps. The door to the music room was partially open, a sliver of light spilling into the darkened hallway. He peered inside to see Mr. Delacroix seated at the grand piano, his aged fingers moving across the keys with surprising agility. The melody was unfamiliar to Elijah, something classical with hints of jazz woven through it.
He must have made some small sound, because Mr. Delacroix suddenly looked up, his hands stilling on the keys. "Is someone there?"
Elijah considered slipping away, but instead pushed the door open slightly. "Sorry for interrupting, Mr. Delacroix."
The old teacher's face brightened with recognition. "Ah, Mr. Walker. Come in, come in." He gestured invitingly. "Detention again?"
Elijah nodded, stepping hesitantly into the room.
"Well, their loss is my gain," Mr. Delacroix said with a warm smile. "I was just finishing up. Do you have time to stay a moment?"
Something in the teacher's kind demeanor made Elijah nod again, though he remained near the door.
"I've been working on a new arrangement," Mr. Delacroix explained, running his fingers lightly over the keys without pressing them. "An old jazz standard reimagined with classical elements. Music is wonderful that way: always evolving, always finding new expressions."
Elijah's eyes were drawn to the piano, its lid propped open to reveal the complex mechanism within. Without thinking, he moved closer, his backpack sliding from his shoulder to the floor.
"That thing won't bite," Delacroix said warmly, noticing Elijah's fascination. "Would you like to try it?"
Elijah's instinct was to refuse, to maintain the protective shell he'd built around himself. But something about the quiet room and Delacroix's gentle encouragement made him hesitate. "I don't really play," he said, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears.
"Humor an old man," Delacroix replied, standing and gesturing to the bench. "Just feel the keys beneath your fingers. Sometimes that's enough."
After a moment's hesitation, Elijah sat down on the bench, his posture stiff. The piano keys gleamed before him, whole and unbroken, unlike his keyboard at home. He lifted the fallboard that covered the keys, revealing the perfect pattern of black and white.
"Go on," Delacroix encouraged softly. "The piano's been played by hundreds of students. One more won't hurt it."