The Resurrected
Back from the dead — or at least from a long time away.
The dust has its own little song on the keys,
and your fingers feel foreign, and stiff at the knees;
but the tomb-lid lifts easy, the room holds the door —
so rise, rusty Lazarus. You've been here before.
Maybe it's been weeks. Maybe a year, and a move, and a whole other life. The patch you left half-finished is exactly where you dropped it, blinking patiently in its grave-dust, not cross with you at all. The guilt you carried up the stairs can stay on the landing. Nothing in this room is keeping a ledger of how long you were gone.
(Here is the secret the instrument would tell you if it could: it never missed the music. It missed you. The two of you can be clumsy together for an evening. Clumsy is just the sound a thing makes when it comes back to life.)
Don't make anything good today. Goodness is for later, if it comes at all. Today the only resurrection that matters is the small one — you, back at the keys.
Next Steps: In plainer terms
- You've been away. Welcome back — no apology needed.
- Don't try to make anything good today. Lower the bar to the floor.
- Turn on the simplest thing. Play one note you like.
- Let it be rusty. Rust comes off with use, not worry.
- The only real goal: come back again tomorrow, too.
If you opted into memory on an earlier visit, the reflection below will show you who you were last time you stood here — that's the whole point of this room.
Welcome back. Begin gently.
This is the chair you're in today — the threshold one. Tomorrow you might be a Jammer lost in a groove, or a Weaver finishing a song. You contain all of them. Coming back is how you find out which.
fin