It was a faulty space heater.
Old wiring. My fault, really.
The flames started near the corner where the Braille books were stacked.
I had stepped out for five minutes—to get a cup of tea.
When I came back, the garage was an angry orange box.
Neighbors were already calling 911.
By the time the fire truck arrived, it was too late.
The carpet. The music stands. The Braille printer. All gone.
And the piano—
My piano—was reduced to ash and twisted metal.
I stood in the driveway in my slippers, clutching a kitchen towel like it might reverse time.
The fire chief, a kind man named Vernon, looked at me and asked, “Was anyone inside?”
“No,” I said, tears stinging my throat. “Just dreams.”
The next few weeks were a blur of insurance calls, burned fingers, and empty afternoons.
I tried to tell myself it was over. That I was too old to start again.
But on the fifteenth day after the fire, a package arrived.
No note. No sender.
Inside was a brand-new Braille music sheet printer.
The return address?
Jeremy.
I called his old number.
Disconnected.
Later that week, another package came.
This time: five collapsible music stands and a digital keyboard with textured keys.
Then came the letter from the mayor’s office:
Mrs. Briggs,
We heard about your music school. The city would like to offer space in the community center rent-free. We believe in what you’re doing.
We reopened in April.
The kids came back.
Delilah brought her lamb, now a bit singed but still loved.
The new keyboard wasn’t a piano, but it sang all the same.
And on the first morning of class, someone knocked on the side door.
It was Jeremy.
Tall now. Handsome in that quiet, strong way.
He wore sunglasses and carried a guitar case.
“I thought maybe the kids would want to hear a real musician,” he said, sheepish.
I hugged him so hard he nearly dropped the case.
“You came back,” I whispered.
“I never left,” he replied.
