Sound gave life through dancing fingers above the white keys, reliving glorious moments of the past in the notes that carried to the ears of the empty white room where the two settled. A boy, he who sat and accompanied the instrument which was pushed aside in the corner, presented one last note of the harmony and softly listened as the chords dispersed into a strained silence. He opened his eyes to a crowd silenced beyond the stage with their gazes holding soft on him. His silence was destroyed with an eruption of clapping as some stood to compliment the performance. His own moment was gone and he was quickly thrown into a world of expectation. His hands still hovered over the white keys before shutting himself into darkness and fumbling for the next tune. Soon it took to play much softer than before and slower-each note hit alone and on beat with the next, holding hands and blending into a lyric that had no sheet to read from-only that of his carried emotion. The last scale was told and held on the final note-this time, he opened his eyes to a vague impression that smeared in front of him. The scene filled the white walls with photos tinted in age of hazed sepia-each holding lit faces of optimism and carrying relatives wearing suites and ties. Then the clocks returned into their existence upon the partitions; grandfather coming in last with a heavy beat to claim the silence.

He was home again for that one moment where daydreams had wrapped him up and took him from reality. And now, that was gone. Neither scene was actuality, for he did not sit on stage and he did not sit on a bench in his living room. He sat on the beach. The sand only offered a vague recollection of that on the French Riviera and the water proved muggy, unlike the clear reflection of the Mediterranean Sea he grew up beside. The near silent whisper of a cooled breeze shifted past him, throwing up his ruffled hair as his soft gaze hit the horizon with discontentment. There was no emotion trailing on his face, nothing to hint at his true desires.

His fingers grasped a handful of sand, passing it softly from hand to another, loosing bits in the wind. Soon, there was nothing left but a few grains that he threw at the water before him. “That stupid a sharp messed up everything.” The mutter slipped from his lips without a second thought; in truth, it was not the note that brought him into such a sour mood. It was the whole situation of his life; alone in a new world and he is expected to stand on his own two feet? It was impossible, humanly against all psychology rules; he needed a support. The sun dipped below a castaway outline of the water’s borders, signaling a warning about the day’s end. He took no notice and leaned back in the cold sand, inhaling lightly but failing to recall moments he missed in France. He was alone, he was a stranger-he was homesick.