the age of castles

There's a piano that stands in a corner, dust piling where sheet music used to. The lid has been closed for years. Under the seat, the pages of books age softly--Bach, Grieg, Clementi.

On the seat, on the edge, a girl sits. Her hands are knotted in her lap. She doesn't belong on this bench anymore.

Around her rises, very faintly, a smell of lemon oil.

(The extent of my musical ability is as follows: Piano, classical, ten years--and I haven't touched keys in ages. Acoustic guitar, a handful of years. Bass guitar, a slightly shorter handful of years. I don't sing--I'm fairly certain that I can't.)