I tried to think of a pithier title and couldn’t come up with anything.
You can’t know what happens after you die. The piano feels screws loosening, feels a crowbar somewhere underneath. Wood cracks, splinters. It’ll be soon. They’ve already pried off its ivory keys. At least it doesn’t hurt.
There’s a pling sound as its strings are cut, the last music it will ever play.
* * *
“What a unique table!”
The table feels a hand run along its glossy surface.
“It looks like it was made from a grand piano top.”
Was I ever a piano? the table wonders. It can’t remember. Unfortunately, you can’t know what happened before you were born.