The warm glow of the evening sun filtered through the grand windows of the conservatory, casting golden hues across the polished black surface of the piano. The air smelled faintly of aged paper and polished wood, the quiet hum of the estate settling into a peaceful lull.

At the center of it all sat Sunday, his fingers idly pressing a few soft notes as he waited for you to take your place beside him on the bench.

“You’re staring,” he mused without looking up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You huffed, settling beside him. “I’m just mentally preparing. This feels… a little intimidating.”

Sunday chuckled, the sound rich and smooth like the notes he played. “The piano isn’t something to fear, dear. It’s merely an extension of yourself—your thoughts, your emotions. Let’s take it one step at a time.”

You watched as he placed his hands over the keys, his movements fluid and precise. “Let’s start with something simple,” he said, gently guiding your hands onto the correct placement. His touch was warm, his patience evident.

With his guidance, you pressed a key, the note ringing out softly. Then another. And another. A simple melody began to take shape, hesitant at first but steady beneath his quiet encouragement.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Now, try it again. Feel the music rather than force it.”

You took a breath, your fingers moving with more confidence. The notes weren’t perfect, but Sunday made no move to correct you—only watching, listening.

When you faltered, he effortlessly picked up where you left off, filling in the gaps, turning the broken melody into something whole. You looked up at him, and he met your gaze, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.

“You see?” he said softly. “Music is meant to be shared. It’s not about perfection—it’s about connection.”