Page 116 of What Goes Around

I reached the stage and accepted the microphone from Apple with a small smile.

“Thank you,” I said. “That was beautiful.”

Apple smiled back.

I turned to face the room.

“Hello, everyone. I’m honored you’d want me to play,” I said. “But I should explain something first.”

The room quieted.

“When I was eleven,” I said, “I had a freak accident and every tendon in my left hand was severed.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the hall.

“I’ll spare you the details,” I said. “But I spent months in rehabilitation, relearning how to hold objects, how to write, how to play at all.”

I let the pause settle.

“My hand never fully recovered.”

Apple’s color drained with every word.

“So unfortunately,” I went on, “a piece at that level is beyond my physical capability.”

I didn’t look at her.

I didn’t need to.

The silence thickened. Brows furrowed, whispers stirred, and confusion settled into discomfort.

“I would have assumed my sister knew that,” I added gently.

Silence.

Then I smiled.

“Still,” I said, softening my tone, “I’d love to play something simpler. Something my hands can manage. Just to thank you all for being here.”

I stepped past Apple and moved toward the piano.

I sat, smoothing my dress, letting the room exhale. For a few seconds, I did nothing. I simply studied the keys, grounding myself.

I adjusted the microphone mounted beside the piano, something I had quietly arranged earlier with one of the staff, and placed it within reach.

I rested my hands on the keys.

And began.

The opening notes of Dernière danse drifted into the room, soft and restrained and aching.

Then I sang.

Ô ma douce souffrance

Pourquoi s’acharner? Tu r’commences

Je n’suis qu’un être sans importance