Vera was unsure what compelled her to sit at that stool and play. Maybe the fact that he was occupied with more important things or just the fact that she was so damn tired of it sitting there and mocking her because she felt like she couldn’t anymore. She had bought it to rekindle her love for the arts but so far all it had done was taunt her. Delicate hands were shaky as they glided across the keys, she hated that too. The first thing to come to mind to play was something upbeat, a folk song, one her mother taught her. An old lesson, god, that was a miserable lesson. It was still miserable now with false notes and the long pauses. Vera banged her hands down out of frustration letting a dreadful noise barrel around her penthouse. It wasn’t her style, when she composed— /used/ to compose. It was usually something melancholic, slow, /passionate/.