I stay late at the office most nights now. The janitor knows to leave a light on by the piano.
No one asks why I'm still there. The church is quiet, the pews empty.
My coat hangs on the back of the door. It's my father's old coat, one size too big. I never got around to buying my own.
Before the divorce, I wore it because it reminded me of him. Now I wear it because it reminds me I can fit into something that was never meant for me.
This morning, the barista at the corner shop spelled my name right for the first time. She wrote 'Arthur' on the cup, not 'Art' or 'A.' Someone got it right.
I smiled and took the cup back to the office. Put it next to the metronome.
I think that's what I'm learning now. To feel again means to let the small things land.
A name on a cup. A coat that's too big. A room with a light left on for you.
I play a chord and let it ring until the sound fades. Then I play it again.