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| The Music Still Plays On |
Agatha Simmons sat at the bus stop, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of autumn leaves and the faint aroma of fresh bread from the bakery down the street. At sixty-two, she had grown accustomed to these quiet moments, waiting for the number thirteen bus to take her to the senior center where she volunteered.
She could have spent her retirement traveling or tending to a quiet life at home, but that was never her calling. Music had always been more than just a career—it was her ministry. For over thirty years, she had taught high school choir and piano, helping students find their voices and discover the beauty of song.
Even after retirement, she couldn’t put music aside. Every Sunday, she played the piano for her church choir, her fingers dancing over the keys in worship. And during the week, she poured her love for music into the senior center, knowing that even in life’s later chapters, music had the power to heal, to comfort, and to bring people together.
She had always imagined she would share her love for music with children of her own. But marriage had never come, and the years had passed more quickly than she expected. Instead, her students had become her legacy, and now, the seniors at the center were her family.
She glanced up as two teenage girls stood near the bench, their laughter light and uninhibited.
“I can’t wait for the talent show,” one girl said excitedly, bouncing on her heels. “I’m gonna play the violin just like my grandpa!”
Her friend grinned. “My mom says music brings people together. I have no musical talent at all.”
A warm smile crept onto Agatha’s lips. Yes, child, it does.
The distant hum of an engine drew her attention. The bus rolled into view, its tires hissing as it came to a stop. Agatha stood, adjusted her red scarf, and stepped inside.
As she took her usual seat by the window, the bus rumbled forward. Sunlight streamed through the glass, painting golden patches across her hands. She closed her eyes for a moment, whispering a silent prayer. "Lord, let me be useful today."
The senior center bustled with quiet activity. A few residents sat near the windows, basking in the sun’s warmth. Others played chess or knitted in hushed companionship. But in the corner of the room, apart from the rest, sat a woman Agatha had seen before—but never spoken to.
Viola Stefanik.
Agatha had noticed her in passing over the last few months, always sitting alone, always quiet. Today was no different.
Even in a room filled with casual sweaters and comfortable shoes, Viola Stefanik stood out. She carried herself with an elegance that time had not diminished. Her silver hair was swept into a flawless twist, not a strand out of place. A string of pearls rested at the base of her neck, and her navy dress—simple yet refined—was pressed to perfection. She was the kind of woman who, even in her later years, took care to present herself with grace.
Yet today, something was different.
Her posture, usually poised, slumped slightly, as if burdened by an invisible weight. She stared at her hands, her fingers moving with a rhythmic flow—like a pianist playing a song only she could hear.
Agatha noticed something else—a silver bracelet resting against Viola’s wrist, the charm on it a tiny, delicate treble clef. It was worn, the edges smooth from years of touch, as if it had once been held often, turned over in quiet moments.
Agatha hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward.
"Hello, I’m Agatha," she said, offering a warm smile. "Would you like to join us for some music today?"
The piano stood in the corner, its polished surface gleaming in the afternoon light. Agatha ran her fingers gently over the keys, pressing down on a single note. It rang out, rich and full.
She turned to Viola. “Would you like to play?”
Viola shook her head, pressing her hands against her lap as if to still their trembling. “It’s been too long.”
“Music doesn’t forget us,” Agatha said softly. “Even if we’ve forgotten it.”
Viola inhaled sharply, her gaze fixed on the piano. Slowly, she reached out, her fingers grazing the keys. A single note, then another. A broken melody emerged—hesitant, uncertain—until her hands stilled.
Tears pricked at Viola’s eyes. “I wasn’t just a dreamer,” she murmured. “I played. I trained for years, studied under the best teachers. I once performed under the glow of chandeliers, in halls where every note echoed like magic.”
Agatha remained quiet, letting the weight of Viola’s words settle between them.
Viola exhaled, shaking her head. “But life had other plans. My father passed away. My mother fell ill. I had to choose—my music or my family. And so, I closed the piano lid and never lifted it again.”
A long pause stretched between them.
Then, Agatha placed her hands on the keys beside Viola’s. “That was a long time ago,” she said gently. “But music is still here, waiting for you.”
Viola hesitated, then nodded. Agatha began to play—a simple tune, soft and familiar. And, slowly, Viola joined in.
Their hands moved together, bringing forth a melody that filled the room, wrapping around them like an old embrace.
Heads turned. A few seniors shuffled closer, drawn to the sound. Someone clapped along softly. Viola’s face lifted, her eyes shining with something Agatha recognized: rediscovery.
When the song ended, silence hung in the air. Then, applause—gentle, genuine, filled with warmth.
Viola pressed a hand to her chest. “I never thought I’d feel this again.”
Agatha reached over, squeezing her hand. “God isn’t done with you yet.”
As the day wound down, Agatha sat near the window, watching the golden hues of evening settle over the horizon. Viola lingered nearby, hands folded but relaxed now, her posture lighter than before.
The Director approached with a smile. “That was wonderful. I’ve never seen Viola smile before.”
Agatha returned the smile, but her gaze drifted upward, beyond the window, beyond the sky.
"Thank You, Lord," she thought.
For the gift of this moment.
For the music that never fades.
For the reminder that no one is ever truly forgotten.
And in the quiet of her heart, she felt the answer—soft, steady, like the echo of an old familiar song.
"Well done, my good and faithful servant."
