Moss seeped out of the old piano tucked safely away in a long forgotten ballroom in a long forgotten mansion whose Lord had died some several hundred years ago.
The occasional note clipped the air as the dying child curled up in the piano's heart twitched and writhed through yet another burst of agony that no mother's gentle hand would soothe this time.
His only solace was in the faint music he heard coming from somewhere deeper inside the piano, somewhere beneath him in a void-like chasm below the time-worn strings. He felt that if he played the right combination, he'd find a way to the below where the sweet music came from, somewhere kinder than his current resting place.
He wouldn't be found for many, many years after his death and even then only his hands were still there. They clutched at the old strings like he'd tried to stop himself from falling down and sliced his palms to ribbons in the process.
It was said that even after removing the hands, you'd still hear the piano being played late at night as tiny unseen hands tried yet another combination in the hopes that wherever the other place was, it might be better than dying alone in the old forgotten house.
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