(The Silence isn't maddening,)

She plays music, music about the world and music about life. She plays music about her world and her life. Her fingers lightly slide across the piano keys and together we make music, we create worlds and shape life. This melody is about her and by the way she presses keys, by her touches, I know that she's excited to share it. Share it with the world, with the worlds of others. But she can only share it with me. Because we create it together. A gentle press of the key, and I utter a note. Another press, and another note. More and more times she touches the keys, and, thus, a smooth melody is formed. It floats around her, it fills her being and it fills mine, too. We're together, she touches me, she touches my keys and I feel how I'm the center of her world. That's how it is, that's how it's always been and always will be.

But something in her performance is different this time. She touches me differently and by the way she puts an abrupt closure to the melody, I know there's something wrong with her.

Alas, I don't have enough time to wonder, for her finger hits the last key and the sweet sensation of her touch disappears. In a moment, I stop feeling and then everything deems into darkness.


Everybody has their own world. But most importantly, she has her own world, she lives her own life. A life in which she smiles and cries, feels happiness and sadness, feels joyful and displeased, merry and blue, irritated and hopeful; a fulfilling life with disappointments and dreams.

But I don't have a world; or I would rather say she is my world. I am alive only when her fingers collide with me. I am alive when she is inspired. I am alive when she wants me to be. She conveys her feelings, emotions; she expresses herself through the sounds I utter. And when she does, we are one and I can feel. I feel the same way as she does: I feel happy and sad, joyful and displeased, blue and merry, I feel irritated, hopeful; I have disappointments, dreams and anxieties. She is my world. My world is her.

So when she is upset, I am, too. And, yet again, I can feel how the darkness is ceasing, and normally it's followed by her touch, the first, opening touch. But not now. Today I can feel her waiting. Waiting for something, something that I am not aware of. And I wait for that, too. She's anxious, she's sad, she's crying.

It's enough to be a part of her world, it has always been. But sometimes, seldom I wish I could be a little bit more than what I am, so I could play music on my own and lift her spirits up.


I can feel. I feel, but not the way everyone else does. I hear, but not the way everyone else does. I can speak, but not the same way as everyone else.

I live, I am real. I am here and I've always been. I always will be here. I always will play the music she wants me to. I will always follow her instructions; I will always try to please her. I live through her touch. So when she is not touching me, when her fingers aren't running across me, I die. I die, but then she revives me. Every time, she awakens me back to life. She is the light in my life, she is the air, she is everything I need to live.

I live. I am real. I can feel. I can be hurt.

I am hurt when she is. And she is in pain, and I can do nothing to help her. I wait for her touch to appear, I wait for the desired sensation, I wait to feel alive, to breathe in her touch, but she doesn't appear. I feel the light, I see it. But I don't see her, so the light is useless.


After she touches the first key, I feel relief. This is her and she is back. She slides her fingers, lightly, merely touching me. Everything is the way it used to be, and I feel hopeful. Delighted. She is playful, and so I am, too. It's that old, senile connection, it's back and for a moment I let it fill me to the top. I let us merge; I do what she wants me to. I follow her will, and she is happy. And I am happy, too. She's tenderly confused; she's displeased, yet ridiculously joyful. She's scared, but she's affectionate. She is cheerful. She is merry.

She is in love.


How long has it been? An hour, or two? A day, a week or maybe a month? For how long have I been waiting for her? For how long have I been dead? How long has she kept me from breathing? When was the last time she had touched me?

She's hitting the keys again. And now it's so different from the last time, it's not the same, not in a single way. Hastily, hastily, she is pressing the keys, she is crushing them, she is missing notes, she is making me sound deranged, aggressive, insane. She is pressing a key after key, impulsively. Impulsive. This is just the way she is, delicate, yet impulsive. She's nervous and I am, too. I don't know what's going on and she's nearing the conclusion, I can feel it. Soon, I will go back to the dark.

I would never mind living in the dark, if that meant feeling her touch eternally.


Oh, she is merciless. She knows not a thing about pity. She is cruelly crying on her bed, knowing that I am here, I am always here all to her service. But all at once, she is flat-out unaware.

There is an eternal hole and I am falling into it. I am numb, because she isn't touching me. I can't feel; I am senseless. But I am falling. I am falling into a hole. I see her slipping away, I see her breaking. I am used to her; I am used to her touch, to her fingers. I am used to being the only way for her to express herself. I am selfish, but I like it. I like thinking that she needs me. And I know she does. I want to stay her only source of pleasure. I want to stay with her. I want her fingers to glide over my keys and never stop doing so. I want to play an infinite melody. I want to never stop uttering sounds. I want to be her inspiration; I want to be her life. I want to be her world, just the same way as she is mine.

But they say dreams aren't meant to come true. So when the darkness comes back, I am numb, numb as always.


She is playing calmly, sadly. She is blue, upset and confused, so I am, too. There's a number of cheerful notes, something hopeful breaking through the floating sadness at times. Seldom, rare, but still they're there, sometimes.

She is sad, but she is determined. Her finger slightly brushes me, and the final accord slowly merges with silence. Soon after, her hands disappear and together with them, my feelings follow her to the world where I don't belong. And then... and then comes the darkness, and by the way the final note is played, I know it's over. It is all over.


(For there is a special Melody)

Everyone has a purpose. Even things, every thing has a purpose. We're all meant for something. People are meant to love and be loved, while flowers are meant to be admired. Daffodils and lilacs are loved for their gentle scents. Lilies are adored for their fragile and tender forms. Water lilies are admired for their exceptional nature. And roses… Well, roses are the symbol of love.

It is interesting to see people embraced in the scent I utter. It is interesting to wonder in their emotions. It is interesting to experience their feelings. It is interesting to see what is happening in their minds, it is interesting. People are interesting.

Everyday I see new people who step into my world. They wonder around the shop, while their thoughts merge with our scents. People's minds are fascinating; they are complex, but easy to read. People crave love, affection. They fall in love, they feel. Everyday a new person comes in, and new feelings and thoughts, new emotions and ideas come rushing in. New minds to explore, new worlds to travel. People are breathtaking, heart-wrenching. I have seen people with big world, and narrow minds. I have seen old people with minds of children; I have seen children with thoughts of elders. I have seen heartbreaks, I have lived through deaths. I have participated in weddings, I was the groom, I was the bride. People come here with different circumstances, carrying different stories behind their backs, but everyone always leaves with a small hope blooming in their minds.

It's funny how all of them want love, but almost no one dares to fall in love. It's ridiculously ironic how everyone wants to take, but no one decides to give. People, for most of the time, are cowards. And the brave ones who had enough courage to open their minds to new feelings are usually the most fascinating.

Though, sometimes I wish my scent could only embrace one person. The only person, who's there every day; the only person, who takes care of our short lives.

He's gentle, calm and caring. He's always there; I can feel his presence all the time. I wander in his mind and I like it the most. I embrace his every thought and emotion. It's not too confusing; it's not too easy to read, yet it's not too complex. It's interesting, it's captivating, it makes me feel. I feel through his thoughts. I live through his mind.

And then there's someone else entering my scent, entering my vision. I feel his mind, I feel my favorite mind go blank for a moment, and then revive with new emotions, which I have yet to explore.


I like to roam every corner of his mind, especially when he creates bouquets. He is gentle, and he is afraid of hurting flowers, he treats us like real beings, as if we were alive. He treats us as a part of his world, and so we are. A part of his world. And he is ours. He is always there, always in the scent, always in my embrace. I touch him gently, I touch him slightly and he likes it. He likes to be a part of my world. I fill his presence, I fill up his every fiber of being, and it's our world. When he is around me, I can feel the emotions he's going through. Be it joy, and then I'm joyful, too. Be it sadness, then I am sad, too. If he's surprised, then so I am.

But today, there's something different, something new. I feel him walking around, I feel him being nervous; I see him being guilty. He's anxious, he's scared, probably even depressed. I want to find out what's going on inside his mind, but all I feel is a mess, a jumble of words, incoherence, complete and utter incoherence.

When a person enters the shop, a person, whose mind seems painfully familiar, enters our world, he flinches and then speaks, stuttering words, mumbling under his breath. There's something in the way he speaks that I have never witnessed in him before. It is something tender, something so gentle, that it almost seems like he's afraid of breaking that person with his voice.

It is difficult to recognize this feeling, so I let it linger in my scent, I embrace the two of them together, because I like these emotions, I like the slight nervousness, I like the surprising easiness, I like them being together.


I can feel. I feel, but not the same way as people who visit our shop do. I can see, but not in the way our customers do.

I live, I am real. I am here and I've always been. I've always been the one to hold him. I've always been here, always been in his presence, always trying to cheer him up. I'm here, I will always be.

But when he leaves my vision, when he leaves the shop at night, I can feel how I'm dying. I feel how my senses cease, descend into nothing. And then he comes back in, he enters my world all over again, with the first rays of daylight, he comes back, pouring new feelings into me. Filling me up with glee, he's there, and I'm here. And this is our world, a world in which I feel.

I live. I am real. I can feel. I can be hurt.

I am hurt when he is. And he is in pain, and I can do nothing to help him. I wait for him to calm down, I wait for him to be back the way he used to be, I wait to feel his emotions, to feed myself with his joy, wait to merge with his mind, but he doesn't change. I see him in my vision, I feel him, but for once, I wish this sensation could stop.


The next time his mind is exposed to my vision, I feel relief. This is him and he is back. He starts making a wedding bouquet, I feel him be careful with leaves, be careful with flowers. He is concentrated, thoroughly consumed with decorating the bouquet. Everything is the way it used to be, and I feel hopeful. Delighted. He is playful, and so I am, too. It's that old, senile connection, it's back and for a moment I let it fill me to the top. I let us merge, I let myself roam him, I let myself linger on every thought that crosses his mind. He's a little confused, and displeased, but he's joyful, ridiculously joyful. He's scared, but affectionate. He is cheerful. He is merry.

He is in love.


A day has passed; he hasn't come back into the shop since he left yesterday. It's strange, it has never happened before. I felt empty, he wasn't there. For the first time he wasn't there. I was hollow. I felt abandoned. I was abandoned.

When I feel someone penetrate my vision, it's him, but it's not him, all at once. Something has changed, drastically, and it's him, but a different person. Impulsive, aggressive, scary. He is moving around hastily. He's nervous, and so I am, too. It doesn't take him long to go to his room, and my scent can't reach him there. I try to engrave his last sensations; I try to memorize what he felt like, to explore it during the night.

And when I do, I realize, it's not him. It can't be.


He isn't coming back. I try to reach him, I try to build up our connection little by little, but nothing works out. I know he's crying. I know he's in pain.

I can't feel on my own, nevertheless, I feel how I'm dying I feel how my every leaf slowly withers. I feel how life is being taken away from me, second by second, and soon I will be gone. He won't enter my vision, I will go blind. I will go senseless. I feel how he's slipping away from me, and it is making me go numb. My time is coming to an end, and I wish I could spend more time with him in my world. I wish it could go back to the way it used to be, I wish to feel his care for us, for me. I want to explore his mind; I want to share his thoughts and ideas. I want to keep going through his feelings.

But they say dreams aren't meant to come true. And he isn't there. So when the night comes, I go back to numbness, slowly withering and fading away.


Roses, the beautiful roses that people use so ever fondly to show their affection, have thorns. They cut, they hurt, as a kind of reminding that there's more than just one side to everything.

And so, every day, so many years, every single day, he's cut himself accidentally with our thorns. He's done it so many times, that he got used to that slight pain and learnt how to ignore it.

But something is different today; today he is holding a rose in his hand, he is holding me and I feel that my thorn has cut him. I feel his warmth around me; I feel how a drop of blood flows down his hand. I feel how he is crying. Crying because of pain. Pain, but not my thorns.


(Lying in the depth of Stillness)

There's a strange sensation, when the darkness fades away. It's touching my keys, but it's not making me utter a sound. It's slight; it's merely brushing me. It reminds me of her, but it is a different feeling. It is a new, a fresh sense, an unknown perception that I have yet to explore. It's gentle, tender, fond and delicate. When she starts pressing the keys, I feel that that strange presence is still there, it's there, but for a moment I let glee fill me up completely, for she is joyously sliding her fingers across my keys. I feel her be utterly happy and enjoy every sound I make. It makes me happy, but the charming presence of that unknown object is still here and for some reason I let myself wander off to explorations, wishing I could see what that object is and what was making her so happy.


(And absence of sounds)

There's something in my vision that I have never experienced before. It's something fresh and new. There're beauteous vibes coming of it, the girl in my vision is happily consumed in her world together with that object. She is touching it, pressing here and there; I wish I could hear what he is enjoying so much. Oh, he is enjoying it so much. Every fiber of his being is enticed and immersed in the world that that girl creates with that immense object. He is happy and it's been so long since I've seen his mind be so dazzling.

And that object, oh, that object is, to say the least and do it justice, very appealing.


Author's notes: just in case I failed to express it the way I wanted to, the story was written from two different POV's: a piano's and a rose's.

I guess it's too obvious to bother saying that I'm a newbie here? But here, hey, I said it.

If any of you spared a moment or two to read my humble story, there's a 100% chance that I am in love with you. And if you feel a tingling wish to review it, I will definitely welcome your criticism (as sharp and merciless as it may be) with open arms. I really want to know what I should work on harder and what I should spend an enormous amount of time to improve, or whether, perhaps, you think I might as well just give up and throw the idea of becoming a writer away, once and for all? Oh well, whoever you are, dear reader, thank you for taking your valuable time to read this short story!

(Also, my apologies for the number of horizontal lines, I just really didn't know how to separate those parts from each other.)