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It is past midnight
As I return home, and there's
Something tangible in the atmosphere,
Yet whispery and faded
As I walk down the deep passageway.
My faltering footsteps echo underfoot and
Make me stop and look.

An icy wave sweeps around
Sending a shiver through my body, making
Me jar in the doorway of the sitting room.
“Hello”, I call out faintly into the eeriness,
Waiting for a reply.
Only a loud tick tock replies
From the old grandmother clock
As she stands ever watchful in the corner.

My eyes are lifted to glance a figure
Sat purposeful at the piano and
Strains of Chopin filter gently.

The time is 1865,
Grandmother would have been in her prime,
As she sat on the gate leg stool at her
Beloved Bechstein,
Nimble fingers in full flow,
Red candle burning ghostly.

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