Everyone has experienced this at one point or another—that one important thought, something you swear you won't forget. A doctor's appointment, perhaps. A visit to the hairdresser. Most of the time, we remember these things.
It's just simply second nature to us.
Yet once in a while, you wake up from a good night's sleep, and the realization hits like cold water: you forgot. Forgot the appointment. Forgot the thing you swore you wouldn't. It's no big deal—it just happens once in a blue moon, right? A slip of the mind, nothing more.But imagine the opposite. What if we could never remember anything? Hairdressers and doctors would be the least of your worries. It would start with small things—misplaced keys, forgotten errands—until one day you look into the faces of your own family and cannot find their names. That is exactly what Alzheimer's Disease does to you. You forget to remember.I know, you're wondering why we're talking about Alzheimer's in music class. The answer is simple. Music is a remedy. It is what helps those who cannot remember…
…remember. A key to doors the disease cannot lock. Musicians affected by it continue to perform, even when their minds fail them. Their fingers know what memory has lost. Music could access memories and pathways untouched by the disease. I don't want to darken this room with such heavy thoughts for too long.What I want is to show you what Music is capable of. It is not merely a form of entertainment. It is intrinsic to humankind. Our hearts beat in a rhythm. Our breaths fall into patterns—ragged, steady, panicked, relieved. Our footsteps create their own quiet percussion against the earth. Music does not imitate life; life, in its clumsy way, imitates music.Before you leave I would like you to ask yourselves: Have you ever noticed the trees in a storm? The way they sway, creak, and groan? If not listen closely.
It's their own wild and raw music. Nature itself is built upon rhythm.Thank you. That's all for today's class. You are dismissed.
The school bell echoed through the hallways as I finished my last class of the day, a cue I had grown far too used to. For years I had delivered that same lecture in the same carefully measured tone. Children, as uninterested as ever in music, passed by, thinking only of Christmas.
It was the 23rd of December, after all, a time for excitement.
For them, at least.
I, however, felt none of it. The joy of Christmas had been stolen from me many years ago.
The last of the students shuffled out, a blur of red sweaters and chatter about reindeer and presents. The door shut, and the sudden silence in the classroom felt heavier than usual. Was it because it was the last day of school for the year? Or because I knew the next two weeks would bring no distractions from old memories?
Either way, it no longer mattered.
For an old friend was peeking at me from the corner of the classroom— I was alone again with the old piano, its lid closed like a sealed coffin, sitting there at the corner of the room.
The school was keeping the piano in this classroom until the renovations at the music hall— where it was supposed to be kept— were done.
My fingers traced the dust on its surface, my fingers lifted unconsciously, shaping phantom chords in the air—an old habit, muscle memory, one could say. Yet I couldn't bring myself to play. I sat there in front of the piano, lost in the heavy silence that settled itself around me, until a knock at the door broke my reverie."It's open," I called, still facing the piano."That is a rare sight, dare I say…", an all but too familiar voice made itself present, "…Monsieur Martin, seated at a Piano"Truly a voice I could recognize from a mile away. My only friend, or at least the only thing I have that is close to being a friend.
The butler of an old acquaintance. "I could say the same about you, Louis. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be rehearsing for the Christmas Eve concert the old man is sponsoring?"
I turned my head. Louis simply stood there in his immaculate black suit—tailored so precisely it could've been carved onto him—his posture as rigid as ever.
"And didn't I tell you to call me René? I imagine you wouldn't enjoy me calling you Mr. Kikuchi."
"It matters not," he replied flatly. "I am here to relay my master's message." Not a twitch, not a shift in expression. Louis was the closest anyone ever was of becoming something akin to a statue. A monument.
He paused, briefly flicking his gaze toward the closed piano. "Truthfully," he added softer, "I had hoped you might reconsider. Your presence at the concert would mean a great deal."
I exhaled, already feeling the tightening behind my ribs.
"Louis—"
"There is still time," he pressed, unusually insistent. "Even though someone else will be performing, I am sure we can arrange for you to have a place in the program as well."
He took one careful step closer, his voice low. "After all, you are—whether you admit it or not—still a part of this house. To—"
""Louis." The word snapped from my throat like a wire. He froze mid-sentence.
"Don't." Sharper now. "It's better this way. You know I just…can't. So drop it."
A heavy silence fell. My eyes dimmed, falling slowly to the floor.
"Also, I'm sure this will be a great opportunity for his new protégée, yes? I heard she's making waves.", I asked as I cleared my throat.
His protégée.
The word lingered in my mind for a moment, though it meant little to me, just another one of his ways to get back at me. From what Louis told me the last time wet met and from what I have seen on the papers, she seemed like a young pianist on the rise, if the rumors were to be believed. I hadn't paid much attention. Just another prodigy the world had decided to celebrate.
Someone young. Driven. The kind of talent people gather around before they even understand why.
Someone with all the momentum I, René Martin, had long since lost.
And above all, this would be her first major event.
Louis's expression returned to its usual calm. "Very well. I will relay the master's request. He wishes to speak with you. Please accompany me."
"What if I don't?"
"That is not an option."
"I know…old friend," I said, resting my hand lightly on his shoulder. "My rebellious days are over. Are we not family? How could I deny?"
He stiffened briefly, then gave a small nod. I didn't wait, guiding him toward the door.
"I am but the butler," he said, steady as ever.
"Yes…yes, you are," I sighed, letting the words fall softly, almost rhetoric.
Louis is the head butler for Junya Kikuchi — the old man I referred to earlier. When my mother died, Junya was there. He's always been around, even before her death, but ever since that day he was the first one to be there. Our relationship isn't that of a father and son by any means, but I was allowed to live most of my life at his mansion before I decided to move out. We rarely spoke, much less saw each other. A man who, in his younger days, was always traveling for "work", and as such I never got close to him. It was just me and Louis in that Mansion.
As you might have guessed, after hearing the word "mansion" more than once, they are rich.
Filthy rich in fact.And as such every thing about them is very elite. The way the butlers carry themselves around with an upstick demeanor, the to an extremely high level, almost even frightening, trained Jochū, traditional japanese elite maids that Junya brought with him from Japan, and the fact that they parked a limousine of 10 meters at the school parking ground, are just a few of the things that just begins to reveal Junya's wealth.
Once Louis managed to convince me to get into the Limousine, we were on our way to Junya's mansion, which is located around 30 minutes away from Paris.
Once Louis convinced me into the limousine, we were on our way to the mansion, thirty minutes outside Paris.
"So what was so urgent he sent his head butler into central Paris?" I asked. "I'm sure he has his hands full with the Christmas concert on the 25th and rehearsals on the 23rd."
"That is for the Master to explain," Louis said, fidgeting with his mustache, a rare sign of worry. "It might be related to his condition… I fear it has worsened."
I paused. Last I heard, he was returning from Japan, doing well for a man of 89. Worsened?Well at his age anything can happen. So I didn't question it."I see..", I replied hesitantly, but didn't pursue it any further.
The ride continued. Classical music was echoing from the 6 speakers this luxury car had all around the vehicle, as we passed by the beautiful landscape, rain on the window, poking against the glass. In trance I lost myself starring into the beautiful landscape, right when a very familiar stone statue flashed by. Mother and me used to take the exact same road to Junya back then, when she and father had to prepare for a concert, where I used to watch them play together, using one of the but many pianos and cellos the mansion had to offer. Back when a smile came from our hearts and when our happiness was true. Back when it felt like as long as we had us and as long as we had music, nothing could ever go wrong.
Good times.
Better times.
A year later, five days before my ninth birthday, my father left. That was when I started playing the piano, hoping to one day to be able play with him again. It gave me hope.
For a small amount of time at least.
I still think of him sometimes.Would have things been the same if he stayed?
Right then Louis snapped me out my train of thoughts. "We arrived".
As I opened the door flashes of past memories appeared in front my eyes. The stone gargoyles all around the entrance area, the staff waiting for you in front of the entrance, the little ponds that made the garden even more graceful, where I me and my parents used to play catch, and in the same exact laid the massive marble stone surrounded by tulips and roses, where Louis found me when I was in tears, not knowing where to go, nor what to do. Not knowing who to be.
I looked at the daunting villa in front me, with it's huge staircase, and even bigger door. If anything, it felt like it was looking at me. Cold and eerie, familiar and yet unpleasant. I just wanted to go inside and leave as soon as possible.The staff greeted my in the same old fashion as always. Bowing to a perfect 90 Degree, like they were trained to. Only when I passed by them and walked up the entrance, they moved again.
Lifeless puppets.
The heavy door shrieked, as the other butlers slowly pushed the door open. A huge corridor revealed itself under the dim lighting of the cloudy weather.
"Let's get this over with", I mumbled, my eyes set to the room across said corridor, leading to Junya's private chambers, the one room I was strictly not allowed in. Yet every time Louis caught me, I'd still sneak in the next time anyway. Over and over, just to play with that beautiful wooden piano, which stood there, almost untouched by anyone.
Carved out from nature itself.Once in front of the room, Louis announced our presence, "Master, may we come in?"No Response.
"Master, I have brought René.", he pressed."Come in", a silent, seemingly weak, voice hushed from the other side of the door.There he was.
JunyaKikuchi.
He carried himself with the kind of quiet authority that always made people pause for a moment. His Grey hair softened the once—sharp lines of his figure, and though he seemed a bit weaker now, thinner and slower, his presence still settled over the room like something heavy and deliberate.
But today, something in his eyes—usually so precise, so controlled—was just slightly off.
Enough to make you hesitate, even if you couldn't say why."It is nice to see you, Martin," he opened, his voice thin yet steady. "A shame you only come to visit when you are told to."
His words snapped me back to my senses.
"Just like it's a shame you only ever contact me when you need something," I shot back, "So let's get straight to the point. What can I do for you?"
"You have the wrong idea, Martin…" His tone dipped, almost gentle. With a subtle, almost ghost like movement, he lifted a hand and pointed toward the window—toward the empty space where the wooden piano once stood.
"…I called you here today because there is something I can do for you."In confusion, I followed the line of his fingers toward, where once the piano stood. Only to see a hollow absence, a void framed by the room's huge windows filled by sunlight spilling through the glass, refracting into an illusion of a rainbow as it met the drifting raindrops on the windows.
"I don't follow…""Well, I had hoped to discuss this over a cup of tea and a proper game of chess," he said, a hint of injury in his pride, "but since you appear determined to rush matters… I would like to offer you an opportunity."
"That so?" I muttered, shrugging off the tension coiling in my stomach. "And what opportunity would that be?"
He drew in a slow breath. "My health hasn't improved. In fact, it has worsened considerably. I… would like you to accompany me to the rehearsals—and to my protégée's concert on Christmas."
"Protégée?" I shot back, before it dawned on me what he'd just asked. A concert. With him. After all these years—after everything that happened—I hadn't set foot in a concert hall.
"Celeste," he answered sharply, cutting off whatever protest was about to rise in my throat.
"I see… So that's why you're sponsoring her debut." The words cut through before I could stop them, and the bitterness in my own voice drowned out whatever name he just mentioned. Ignored it. "She's meant to replace me."
A faint, thorny smile creased his face. "If you wish to view it through such a lens, then be my guest. Regardless, the opportunity remains."
"And what opportunity is that?" I asked, my patience thinning to a thread. "Something here, in this room with us?"
"As always, that sharp tongue," he sighed. "But very well. I intend to give you your father's flute. The one you always asked for. Consider it a Christmas gift."
I froze. The room seemed suddenly smaller—too bright, too silent.
"After all these years?" The words forced themselves through my clenched jaw. "Now you bring this up? You weren't there when my mother died—when everything fell apart—and suddenly you feel compelled to offer some grand gesture—"
"Ahem."
Louis gently cleared his throat, the sound cutting through my anger like a soft blade.
"If I may," he said carefully, "perhaps we should take a moment."
He was right — I needed air before I exploded.
Outside, the rain had thinned to a mist, the kind that clings to your coat and makes the world feel strangely quieter. Louis stood beside me beneath the overhang, hands folded behind his back.
"I know how you feel," he said, low and measured. "I won't pretend Master has always treated you justly. However you must at least hear him out."
Louis waited, patient as ever. When I finally nodded, the two of us returned inside.
Back in the mansion, the air felt heavier, like the storm had seeped in through the walls. Junya didn't look at me, simply spoke as though we had never left the room. "Perhaps," he began, "we can come to a reasonable arrangement. You attend the main concert. Only that. And assist Louis during rehearsals—if you agree."
"I only go to the main concert," I repeated, arms crossed. "That's it."
"That is acceptable."
He paused, then added, almost too casually, "My Protégéewill be performing on the wooden piano — the same one your parents used. It is already at the performance site."
My breath stopped, then stumbled, then broke altogether. Their piano.
He was handing it to someone else as if it was nothing.
"No," I muttered, shaking my head. "No, no—absolutely not. I can't do this. I was a fool to believe you were offering me anything."
I turned and stormed toward the doors. Junya's voice followed, thin but firm, echoing through the hall:
"Think about it. My offer stands"
"Louis, make sure he gets back home.", he added.
The words chased me all the way out to the waiting limousine. I threw myself into the seat, chest tight, vision prickling. Louis slid in the driver's seat, shutting the door with his usual elegant precision.
"If I may," he said gently, fastening his seat belt, "It might be wise to sleep on this."
I stared straight ahead, refusing to give an answer.
"I remember how beautifully you played that wooden piano," he continued, voice soft but unwavering, "and what it meant to you. I truly do. So I understand your frustration, René. I only hope you can find a way to make peace with it—whatever peace there is to be found."
The limousine started its engine, slowly preparing to drive me back to Paris.
I closed my eyes, but the old piano's sound — the sound of my parents playing it — kept repeating itself in my head.
Fifteen minutes into the drive I finally mustered up the courage to speak again.
"Louis… If… just if, you could go back in time, is there anything you would change?"He paused for a second as he looked at the rear view with a rather sad, almost mourning, expression.
"The past is set in stone, there is no turning back time. What happened has happened, and we have no choice but to live with that.", Louis claimed after his sorrowed face snapped back to factory settings. Stern, unbothered and with that slight touch of desolation.
Unimpressive, that answer. As always, he didn't speak his mind, only told something that would neither displease nor please anyone… like an empty puppet with no free will.But then again. That is what he is. A marionette to the old man.
I thought to myself: Yeah, that sounds about right, I had a feeling he would give me such an answer."Why even bother asking…", I mumbled and let my head fall back against the headrest, trying to relax as I stared out the backseat window at the rain growing steadily heavier.
My fingers curled against the fabric of the seat as memories pressed in uninvited—the piano, my parents' laughter, love and music. My vision swayed into a blurred view as the world narrowed to the outside, everything else fading into a dull periphery until even time seemed to loosen its grip. And as such the drive felt shorter than it should have. The city lights blurred past, swallowed by the rain and speed alike, until familiar streets emerged far too soon. The limousine slowed, tires hissed against wet pavement, and just like that the trip was over. We were back at the school, the last couple of children started to leave the building after a long day of school. The silence in the car was so deafening that one could hear the voices of the children leaving said school. With no further time to waste I grabbed the handle to make my way to my car, when Louis turned his head towards me and put his ice cold hands on my knee.
"The future however is a chapter yet to be written, it is a spectrum of possibilities. It offers not only chances to set things right, but the opportunity to choose hope over regret, if we are willing to reach for it.", He withdrew his hand and reached into his coat, producing a small set of keys. The metal caught the dim light as he pressed them into my palm.
"The site where the piano is being prepared," he said quietly. "Take these. Set things right."
His gaze held mine, steady and expectant.
"Play."I stared at him, caught off guard. It was so unlike him that for a moment, I forgot how to respond at all.
I told you already," I said at last, shaking my head. "I can't—"
"Just take them," Louis cut in quietly, pressing the keys more firmly into my hand. "For an old friend."
His eyes met mine in the rear view mirror unwavering, almost pleading.It felt like I had no choice due to my state of perplexity. My fingers closed around the cold, iron keys against my will.The door clicked open. A sign that it was time for me to leave. And so I did. I stepped into the drizzle, the cold rain immediately clinging to my coat.
A soft movement from inside the car caught my attention. Louis had rolled down the window, his eyes fixed on mine. His voice, calm , cut through the muted patter of the rain.
"You also have the right to belong," he said.
I looked down at the keys, as they felt heavier all of a sudden. Maybe it wasn't the keys at all, but my heart that felt heavier.
Looking back, taking those keys is what set all in motion. This is what started to turn the wheel of fate.
My fate.