My mother never plays the piano.

It is a beautiful instrument: glossed black frame, with a brass plate into which the strings are set, burnished threads. The piano is supported by a central pillar and a trio of pedals -- the far right worn and sloping, thin as paper at the circular edge. The lid lies flat, concealing the internal twine of gold, keys hidden beneath the fallboard. The hammers are motionless, the strings are soundless, and the bench is stowed.

My mother never plays the piano.

Sometimes, I pull out the bench, bearing its weight with burning arms, breath held, preventing the legs from scraping against the floor. It holds me with a creak and a rustle as I sink onto the cushion. I run my hands across the keys, textured white notes as though laid with a lacquered layer of cream enamel. I depress the pedal and sway to a tune only I can hear, rolling applause in the silent room.

On daring days, I press a key. I keep the lid closed, the note a whisper within the piano’s bowels, contained, constrained. The instrument doesn’t breathe and neither do I. The note trills and I hold it until it fades. Then, I listen, primed, but there is no approach.

***

“Play something.”

My mother says nothing, lifting a fork to her mouth. Her back is straight, but her elbow balances on the table, eyes hidden behind her hand, thumb against her temple. Wrapped in a shawl, the fabric juts around her shoulders. I can see her collarbones. I am certain I could not a year ago, before my mother’s diet of cabbage and swede, selected for us both. I miss Parmentier potatoes and pâté, but I eat without complaint.

Light filters through the single panes, diluted and grey, the sky veined with clouds.

It is spring, but summer feels unreachable. I suspect the feeling has more to do with the barricades of sandbags in the streets, than the weather.

***

I am jumping the stairs, gripping the metal banister for leverage, my soles slapping against the marble tiles, when I see Madam Allard hovering outside her door. Her shopping bag is crumpled next to her feet, and her hand trembles as she attempts to shift the key into the lock.

“Madam Allard?”

I reach out and steady her hand. Madam Allard has lived below us for all my life -- possibly forever. I cannot imagine any other occupant of her apartment. Before the soldiers, she used to visit my mother, and they would drink Chablis long after I’d gone to bed. I think I remember the apartment alive with piano song, but recollection is fickle.

The door swings inward. I grab her shopping bag -- lighter than expected -- and place it just beyond the threshold. I peer into it, but there is only a small lump of bread and two swedes. She must be following the same diet as my mother.

When I turn back, her eyes are on me. She touches my cheek and I flinch at her frozen skin.

“You need gloves.”

Madam Allard huffs a single breath, but it does not blossom into laughter; the lid of the piano is down. Then, she is silent.

I do not leave; she has not dismissed me.

“Do you still have the” -- she lowers her voice -- “piano?”

Of course. Why would we not?

A smile crosses her features. “Good. They will never hear of it from me.” I am not sure who her next words are intended for, but, regardless, I hear: “I miss her playing.”

***

It is two o’clock in the morning, and I am tangled in my bedsheets, sweating and parched. I tiptoe down the hallway, into the kitchen, pressing a cold glass into the palm of my hand. On my return, I notice the drawing room door is ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the hall.

I steal towards it, pressing my eye against the gap. My mother is seated at the piano bench, a lamp resting on the lid, the fallboard raised, keys like parchment in the light. Sheet music rests on the stand, and she sits upright, her face turned towards the notation.

I lean closer, breath baited at the possibility of her playing, but silence persists. I glance at the wall. The shadows of her fingers flit across the keys. Entwined by melody, my mother sways, side-to-side, and the flame hops, her shadow leaping, flickering shade dancing to her rhythm. On the wall, silent notes sing. The shadows whirl to it, my mother curves to it. Her song is invisible only to me.

Beyond the window, the streets are quiet. The whole of Paris is holding a breath.

***

In June, they take the piano.

I stand in the drawing room, door splintered, and stare at the place it used to stand. The space hints at its ghost: scuff marks in the flooring; varnished squares protected from sun-bleaching by the piano legs; fragments of sheet music, torn amongst the wreckage of the apartment.

My mother is on the floor, tangled in her shawl. Her face is tilted away from me, towards the window and the wall, fingers curled in her palm. In my head, I hear her voice, harsh and cracked.

“You cannot have it!”

It takes two hours for Madam Allard to find me.

I sink beneath the weight of all the notes which will never be played.

***

I played it once.

An A-minor arpeggio: I held the pedal, lid balanced on the prop, a sail rising to catch the breeze.

My mother lingered in the doorway. She watched me, palm laid against the frame, elbow bent, her shawl draped across her shoulders.

I eyed her, expecting some chastisement, clipped commands for me to hush. She said nothing, just lowered her hand, fingers brushing against the white paint.