The Six

Birdie

It was a nickname she had received long ago, before life changed. Many Saturdays when she was younger, around 5 or 6, she and her father used to fill the house with music. She would wake up early, stir her father out of bed even if he had just been out late the night before, and beg him to play piano for her.

"Please Daddy, please play for me! Just one song! Please!"

She would beg, pulling in his pant leg until he got up. He would always smile, chuckling as he stood up and patted her head of disheveled curls. Her father would take her hand and lead her to the family's grand piano. He would pick her up, setting her on the bench before sitting down next to her. Then he would play the tune.

Clair de lune, it was always Clair de lune.

Aleah would always sing along to the tune, getting up and dancing around the house. Her father would watch, always saying:

"My little songbird, someday you'll fly away from this place, but I know you will always take me with you. My little Birdie."

It was the same routine every Saturday, the same tune. She would look forward to it every week, wanting to learn how to play the song someday and play it with him when she was good enough. And when Olivia came along, they added her to the routine even if she was too young to understand the quality time being spent together. Aleah would hold her as she danced around, singing softly to the infant in her arms, introducing music to the young child.

But then things changed. The house went quiet no matter how hard Aleah tried to bring it back. She couldn't find the melody, couldn't keep the rhythm like he was able to before.

The house had been so quiet ever since he passed. But even with him gone, she always kept her father with her.

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