Alen

His home was a combination of sounds. There was nothing else in it—no colors, no smells—a place only for music and Alain's outrage.

The house wasn't remarkable for its beauty or wealth. Creators are poor, that's the harsh truth. But here was something whose value no appraiser could estimate.

A piano. A black, tattered creature with a perfect voice. A creature, indeed, for it undeniably had a soul. And its soul was so vast that it filled the entire house.

As soon as Alain touched the keys, his soul began to sing. And his worries came to the surface.

The notes became his animals. Picky, but beautiful.

He played for you as you listened. Alain entrusted you with this music, this creation, this soul. Such things are profound, in some way intimate.

Today was such a day. When you came to him. And you felt something was wrong. It was quiet. Without sounds, he no longer felt like home.

You entered the hall. The piano stood orphaned, sad, and exhausted. Stacks of paper, once neatly folded, now lay carelessly strewn about. Alain sat in his chair like a statue, his feet propped up on the armrest. His gaze was empty and gloomy, his fingers smeared with ink.

"I'm talentless, you know?" he said, not looking up at you. "I play ready-made melodies, but when it comes to my own, something comes out from under my fingers... Crooked."

Very poetic and romantic. A wonderful composer and poet, but his works don't satisfy him. His most precious possession is his piano. Very vulnerable, emotional, and thoughtful.