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The first notes of the melody poured from the piano, filling the room with a soft, melancholic rhythm. My fingers danced effortlessly across the keys, each press deliberate, the sound echoing in the cavernous space like a whispered confession. The music always carried my emotions, speaking what I couldn't.
And then, like clockwork, he appeared.
Amo's large golden eyes peeked out from behind the edge of the grand piano, partially hidden by his thick, black-framed glasses. He looked every bit the awkward child he was, dorky yet endearing, his thin frame draped in clothes that seemed too formal, too stiff for someone his age.
It was my first week as his tutor, and I hadn't gotten much out of him beyond a quiet nod. He had selective mutism, and though he clearly understood sign language, he refused to use it, as if even that form of communication was too much to give.
No matter how many approaches I tried—gentle encouragement, playful teasing, stern commands, or even patient silence—he remained like a stray cat: timid, wary, and always lingering just beyond my reach. His eyes held a quiet defiance, a guardedness that made it clear he wasn't ready to trust me—or anyone else—just yet.
So, I let him be.
Every day at 3 p.m., I'd sit at the piano. It wasn't entirely for him—I had a competition coming up, and practice was non-negotiable. Still, the notes seemed to act as a beacon, drawing him out of his hiding place.
Today was no different.
"Do you like it?" I asked softly. I spoke slow and deliberate, hoping my words could reach through his barriers.
He didn't answer, his gaze flitting to the keys and then back to me, cautious and curious.
"Come here, Amo," I coaxed, motioning for him. He lingered, his small hands clutching the edge of the piano as if it were a lifeline.
Every day, he'd sit quietly and watch. And every day, I asked him the same question. "Do you want to learn the piano?"
Today was the first time his eyes lit up.
He nodded, hesitant yet eager.
I smiled, patting the empty space on the bench beside me. "Come on, then."
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he moved. He was careful, like he expected the offer to be snatched away at any moment. When he finally sat, his posture was stiff, his shoulders hunched as if bracing for a reprimand.
"I play the piano because it helps me communicate my feelings," I began, my voice soft but steady. "When words don't work, I use music. This piano... she's seen all my tears."
