PART 7 – The Piano and the Paw
The first note she wrote in the new piece was a B-flat.
It rang strange, almost shy, on the upright Baldwin’s keys—like the air wasn’t used to hearing something born right then and there. Margaret paused, let the sound sink into the wood floors and faded wallpaper, then pressed on.
She wasn’t composing for a recital. She wasn’t composing for her students.
She was composing for Patch.
For James.
For the silence that once filled her house like fog—and for the melody that had chased it away.
The piece came slowly. A single phrase here. A rhythm there.
Some days she wrote nothing at all.
Some days she wrote so much she forgot to eat.
But every note was honest.
Thomas began helping her digitize James’s old sheet music.
“Some of these are half-finished,” he said one evening, squinting at a torn scrap with four lonely chords.
“He never liked endings,” Margaret said. “Said they always felt dishonest.”
“Maybe they’re invitations, then,” he said, tapping the page. “For someone else to finish.”
She looked at him.
“You surprise me,” she said.
“I surprise myself,” he replied.
He smiled, a little sheepish, and turned back to the page.
Lily noticed the new composition first.
During a lesson, she pointed at the handwritten notes on the corner of the music stand. “What’s that one called?”
Margaret hesitated.
“I don’t have a title yet,” she said. “It’s still growing.”
“Can I hear it?”
Margaret paused, then played the opening bars.
The room went very still.
When the last note faded, Lily whispered, “That sounds like him.”
Margaret looked down at her.
“Like Patch?”
“Yeah. Like how he sounded when he was quiet, but listening real hard.”
Margaret’s throat tightened.
“Then maybe it’s done growing after all.”
She called it “The Listener’s Waltz.”
It was both new and old.
It carried James’s rhythm, Patch’s silence, and Margaret’s hands—those strong, weathered hands that had pressed both grief and healing into every key.
She made five copies. Gave one to Thomas. One to Mason. One to Lily.
And one, she tucked inside the cedar box beside the dogwood tree, under the stone marked with: He Heard the Music First.
Summer arrived with green heat and sudden storms.
The recitals moved indoors. Fans whirred, children fanned themselves with sheet music, and Margaret made cold lemonade with bruised mint from the garden.
One afternoon, a woman stopped by the porch and knocked.
She looked young but tired—eyes ringed with the kind of weariness that comes from too many jobs and too little sleep. A boy, maybe five, clung to her leg.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, glancing nervously at the sign out front. “You still teaching?”
Margaret nodded. “I am.”
The woman’s voice cracked. “He doesn’t talk. But he hums, sometimes. And when he does… it sounds like music.”
Margaret knelt to meet the boy’s eyes.
“Would he like to play something?”
The boy didn’t speak. But he reached out and touched the piano keys through the screen door. Gently. Like they were made of glass.
Margaret opened the door wide.
By August, Margaret had a waiting list.
Not just for lessons, but for listening.
Parents came not only to hear their children perform, but to rest. To breathe in a place where the past wasn’t a burden—it was part of the music.
Thomas built a small bench for the garden. On the back, he carved one line:
Play what you remember. Teach what you love.
Margaret placed it under the dogwood, beside the stone, near where Patch used to lie when the music floated out the window.
One morning, Margaret received a letter from the local library.
They were starting a community music archive—something for teachers, students, and local composers to share their work. They asked if she might be willing to donate a piece.
She sent “The Listener’s Waltz.” Along with a short note:
Composed in honor of a one-eyed dog and the man who loved him.
Both of whom taught me how to hear again.
—M.E.
That fall, a small concert was held at the library.
Students performed pieces by living, local composers. Margaret sat near the back, her cane leaning against her leg, her hands folded in her lap.
When Lily stepped up to the piano and placed “The Listener’s Waltz” on the stand, the room grew still.
She played it with reverence. With wonder.
When the final note sounded, the audience stayed quiet for a beat too long.
Then the applause came.
Margaret felt something warm brush her ankle.
Nothing was there.
But she smiled anyway.
That night, back at home, she sat alone with the Baldwin.
She played the waltz once more. Not for anyone. Not even for Patch.
Just because the music still lived.
And always would.
PART 8 – The Piano and the Paw
The first real cold snap came early that year.
The air turned brittle overnight, and frost stitched delicate lace across the garden beds. Margaret bundled herself in James’s old wool coat, still faintly smelling of cedar and the years they shared.
She found herself walking more, even when the wind bit at her cheeks. The sound of her cane tapping against the sidewalk had become a kind of rhythm—punctuating the silence, steady and true.
Every now and then, she’d pause near the dogwood.
Some mornings, she swore she heard that gentle, low howl drift through the branches.
Not in sound.
In memory.
One gray afternoon, Thomas brought over a wooden box he’d made himself.
“I figured you might want a place to keep it,” he said, holding it out.
Inside was the original, handwritten sheet music for “The Listener’s Waltz”, a photo of Patch, and the letter James had written all those years ago.
Margaret ran her fingers along the inside lid, where Thomas had etched something in clean, careful script.
The ones we love never really leave.
They just wait in the quieter songs.
She covered her mouth.
“Do you like it?” he asked quietly.
She nodded. “It’s beautiful.”
He sat beside her on the porch swing. “I used to be afraid of silence,” he said. “It used to mean failure. Or shame. Now, I think it just means someone’s waiting for you to speak.”
Margaret reached over and took his hand.
Not tightly.
Not with urgency.
Just enough to say, I’m still here.
That winter, Lily’s mother invited Margaret to Christmas Eve dinner.
“I know it’s a lot,” she said over the phone. “But Lily insisted. She says it’s not really Christmas unless you play something before we eat.”
Margaret smiled. “You tell her I’ll be there—with bells on.”
She arrived with a peppermint pie and a satchel full of music books.
Lily met her at the door, practically vibrating with joy. “We saved the piano seat for you!”
The small upright in the corner was decorated with a garland and one crooked ornament: a paw print, painted silver.
Margaret sat down.
She didn’t play carols.
She played “The Listener’s Waltz.”
No one spoke during the song.
And when it ended, Lily whispered, “I think he would’ve liked that.”
“I know he would,” Margaret said, eyes wet.
As the new year approached, Margaret began writing again.
Not music, this time.
A letter.
It began simply:
To the one who will play this piano after me…
She didn’t know who they’d be.
Another widow. A child with nervous hands. A boy with a trumpet and too much heart.
But someone would come.
She could feel it.
In February, she hosted a storytelling night in the parlor.
Students, neighbors, even the mailman came. One by one, they stood near the piano and shared something: a song, a memory, a moment.
Mason read a poem about second chances.
Camille sang a lullaby in French.
Thomas told a story about a one-eyed dog who waited through three winters to find his way home.
Margaret didn’t speak until the end.
She sat down at the piano, looked around the room, and said simply: “Some songs start in silence.”
Then she played the waltz.
A few weeks later, a letter came in the mail with a return address she didn’t recognize.
It was from Melissa Cheng—the former director of the Charlottesville Animal Rescue.
Dear Ms. Ellison,
I recently came across an old intake file marked “One-Eye Jack,” and your name was attached. I don’t know if you remember me, but your husband, James, asked us to hold a special dog for someone he loved. I had almost forgotten that day—until I saw your name listed on a community concert program.
Thank you for giving that dog the home he waited for. He waited a long time. But I believe he knew.
Warmly,
Melissa
Margaret sat with the letter in her lap for a long time.
Then she folded it gently, added it to the wooden box, and returned to the piano.
She began composing again.
Not a waltz this time.
A nocturne.
Slow, tender, filled with pauses and space.
It didn’t demand attention.
It invited it.
She titled it “For Those Who Wait.”
The night she finished it, snow began to fall.
Margaret lit a fire, brewed chamomile tea, and watched the flakes gather outside like dust from a dream.
She reached for the photo of James on the windowsill.
“Did you know,” she whispered, “that the world would open back up?”
The wind tapped gently at the glass.
A sound, maybe, or just a feeling.
Not an answer, but a presence.
She set her tea down. Sat at the Baldwin.
And in the hush of falling snow, she played.