The sign on Elias Morgenstern’s door says the same words today, in the same faded white paint, on the same rain-warped oak, as it did sixty years ago:

“All people are welcome. Leave your shoes and your worries by the door.” 

The sign hangs limp, knocking against the wood amidst the winter breeze like a forgotten flag. I can see its form rattling as I park. The snow’s heavy this year, like it is every year, and drifts beneath the warped frame of Mr. Morgenstern’s old brick home. The driveway’s empty, save for my car. It fits neatly on the asphalt, wheels nested in a time-worn groove like it’s always been meant to be. My mother told me stories when I was younger of cars lining the street to see Elias Morgenstern on the keys, wandering up and down jazz rock chords sunrise till sunset. When she was young, she would say, her mama would take her here, let her sit near the piano bench. She never forgot about him, even if the rest of the city did.

I step out of my car, snow crunching beneath my feet, and it’s the smell of smoke and traffic smog that greets me first, old friends out here where the lights from uptown don’t reach. This place was always the rough part of town. My teachers told my mother that sending me here for lessons would get me mugged, or worse. But things like that didn’t happen around Mr. Morgenstern’s, no matter how bad the times got. My mother said it’s been silent for years, fading slow from the moment his hands started to lock up from arthritis in the 90s until he lost his wife in the early 2000s. She said she cried for days, then, mourning the loss of an old friend. I was too young to remember. Ever since, he’s been living alone. Part of me wonders what that kind of life is like.

I approach the porch, making a note to shovel his walkway clear before I drive home later. I think that it’d be a nice thing to do, even if I don’t expect anyone to come or go besides me. Mr. Morgenstern’s too weary to leave his home safely, and I worry that a strong wind might blow him away on the breeze. I’d invite my friends from Uni, but Mr. Morgenstern doesn’t play anymore, and no one’ll risk the stigma of being caught on the East Side just to listen to an old man play piano, regardless of the stories surrounding him. 

I pull my coat closer around my shoulders as I step up to the sign. I sigh, minding the rules. I tilt my head one way then the next, feeling the loose thoughts and worries rattling in my skull. Grades, friends, and that recital last weekend stick out in my mind. Thinking about all those blank stares sends shivers down my spine. It occurs to me how much I need this right now, if not this lesson then at least that little reminder on the sign. I catch those worries, put them in a box, and drop it by the door. I resist the urge to take a second look as I push in.

The house creaks in a warm greeting. Dust lines the stair railings, outlines tracing a handprint path climbing and descending the stairs. A set of black and white photos, framed in faded redwood, show people smiling and laughing, faces of a time long past. Mr. Morgenstern himself is only ever in the corners of the shots, his back greeting the camera in a full suit and bowler cap. I tread lightly through to the den, tracing time-worn dirt tracks. Chairs and small, circular tables stand empty and unused as I push through. Pressed against the back wall, in nearly immaculate condition, is the piano. Its keys are well-dusted, and the dark oak frame is as deep and trim as the day the piano rolled in. No stray books, cups, mugs, medals, or sheets of music litter its head, and the bronze shine of the pedals, while faded, glimmers through. 

Next to the piano bench, a rocking chair sways to and fro, an old wicker piece with a cushion from the 80s. In it sits Mr. Morgenstern, a bowler hat over his balding head and the same three-piece suit and tie on his person as in the old photos. It looks large on him now. The sleeves pool around his wrists and his bony, liver-spotted hands are intertwined resting on his chest. He tilts his head down in greeting, the brim wide and low enough to cover his features entirely, but I can feel a faint smile on his face. It wouldn’t be hard to miss him on a quick glance. He looks about ready to disappear. I shiver as the thought crosses my mind.

I frown a bit as I sit at the bench besides him, laying my bag beneath me. He tilts his chin up at me, glancing at me with piercing grey eyes, and the edges of his smile turn ever so slightly. There’s a question, or rather a reminder, on his expression. He raises one finger towards the sign on the door outside, and I nod, pulling in a long, slow breath. I let it go with a nervous laugh.

“Sorry about that. Got a bit lost in my own head again. What with the weather and everything, just seems to be a week for it. Which piece should I start with?”

His eyebrows knit together, and he tilts his head, a concerned frown on his face. I nod, understanding I won’t be getting away from this, and think for a moment, chewing on the words. 

“I fumbled the recital. I know I said I was ready, but I just…,” my hands turn in empty gestures, tense, and the words tumble out of me, “From a technical standpoint, I didn’t do anything wrong. The notes were right, the tempo was right, even the texture was right where it needed to be, but nothing felt right. There was no bounce, there was no life. It was no different from an exercise. Wrong notes, rushed melodies, and a pity clap after is fine, but-”

The rocking chair creaks as Mr. Morgenstern leans forward and I pause. His eyebrows are raised, and he looks to be somewhere between excitement and surprise. His fingers unclasp, shaking and he reaches over to tap the edge of the piano. He points at me and nods once before settling back in. It takes me a moment to realize that he’s inviting me to play. I open my mouth to protest, but he’s still just waiting. I turn, place my sheet music on the stand and my fingers on the keys. The next few minutes pass in a practiced, mechanical fashion, one hand trailing the bouncing jazz rock chords while the right runs up and down the scale, landing and stumbling through accidentals with practiced precision. By the time the song ends, I feel nothing. It’s just a song. The thought unsettles me. 

The winter wind pushes through the cracks in the door. Underneath it, I hear a wheezing, soft whisper, light as the breeze. I turn to Mr. Morgenstern, only just registering that he had spoken. His eyes are glazed over with tears. His skin, tanned and weathered, clings to his bones and gives him a gaunt appearance. He smiles, thin and shaky, “I’m proud of you.”

The wind drives against the windows. They rattle as the house creaks. I stutter, “What?”

His entire body shakes, like a leaf on the wind, as he chuckles. His voice comes out a bit louder now as he leans forward. 

“I said I’m proud of you. You’ve come a long way since I first met you. ‘Specially if you’re starting to get a feel for what I think you’re feeling.”

My first instinct is to deny his praise. 

I’m not half the pianist you are, I think, I’ve had the cops called on me for noise complaints, I don’t know if that’s really worthy of pride. 

But his expression twists ever so slightly into a smirk, like he knows and doesn’t care. I bite those worries back. “Thank you. For taking me this far, I mean.”

Mr. Morgenstern reaches over to the small, wire metal table besides him and picks up a glass of whiskey. Ice clinks in his cup as he takes a shaky sip. I resist the urge to reach over and help. He sets it down, lingering on the taste, and finally nods, jaw set. It occurs to me this is the first time I’ve seen him look determined before.

“Seems you’re about ready, then. Just in time, too. I reckon this’ll be our last lesson together.”

I freeze. My eyes scan his expression for a hint of a joke, but he’s still smiling like he always does.

“Our… what? You don’t mean that, right?”

He gives me a slow nod, “’Fraid so. Now, listen close. I’m low on time, and this last lesson’s the big one.”

My mouth opens and shuts a few times, fumbling for words. I settle on humor, with a short laugh, “What are you saying? You’re talking like you’re already dead.”

He nods, eyes trailing out the window. “Might as well be. Can’t put a hand on it, but it’s got one on me,” Mr. Morgenstern sighs and laces his fingers over his chest, “I’m dying soon, son. I imagine it’ll happen whilst I’m sleepin’. My pa said I’d get a feel for it when it came close. Ache in my bones would fade, I’d start feeling antsy outta nowhere. Feeling like I’m on the clock and there’s still something to do,” his gaze lands on me, and there’s a moment of guilt, fleeting, behind his expression, “And, something to ask of you. Selfish, I know. Sorry ‘bout that, son.”

The weight of this moment sinks into my bones and I nod, hoping I never lose the memory of whatever comes next. He casts a glance around the room like it’s the last time he’ll ever see it. A wistful smile crosses his mouth.

“You know, back then, there wasn’t a quiet night ‘round here. Didn’t matter bout the season, or the weather. People heard I was giving out food and drink and music. We had the radio, then, but the stations didn’t play blues and jazz. You hear me, son? I mean to say that its quiet, round here, and I think it’s a pity. Don’t you?”

I look around, imagining the blank stares of audience members and cops banging at my door, yelling for me to quiet down, and I wince, “I can see the appeal. But I don’t know how you managed it, playing for everyone every night.”

He chuckles, his hat bobbing, “What do you mean? Performing? Ah, it’s alright. You’re just about there to realizing it yourself, now. See, there’s a trick to it,” he points a bony finger towards his door. “What does the sign out front mean, do you think?”

My brow furrows, “The sign? It’s an invitation. Come in, rest your mind, have a good time, right?”

“No, son. It’s a promise.”

I look over at the door. Mr. Morgenstern takes another sip of his whiskey. I look back, uncertain, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

He smiles. “My daughter said the same thing, when I told her about it. It’s alright,” He taps the armrest with finality, “It’s a promise that, no matter what’s going on out there, this is home. Don’t matter what’s going on out there, not one second. Only people who ain’t welcome are people looking to start trouble, you hear?” I nod as he continues, “But it’s been quiet here. And that makes me real sad,” he shakes his head and sighs then nods his head towards the piano, “Make it sad, too. A home’s meant to be full. An instrument’s meant to sing for someone. But this place’s been empty. Dying for someone to stay a while.”

I follow, looking for the request in his words and failing to find it. He must be sensing my confusion or, at least, the apprehension.

“Here, scoot.”

I shift quickly to make room and he rises, lifting with his arms and his legs to pull himself onto the bench. One hand lands on the piano, the other on my shoulder, and I help him across. His face contorts in exertion until he finally comes to rest. He lays his hands on the keys, aching and jittering. But, the moment he does, a small smile splits his features.

“What I mean is this, son. Listen to this.”

I start to speak, worried for his hands, when the music pulls me in. The first notes fall like water droplets, landing and ringing against silence. The sound is high, crisp and resonant, but hollow to the core. A minor chord rings out clear, a warbling bass voice rumbling and rolling beneath as the left joins right. His entire frame seems to shake under the weight of his song. I realize, quietly, that he hasn’t played for me even once before, but the sound is familiar, like I’ve been hearing it my whole life. Mr. Morgenstern sways a bit as his hands plunk out a warbling tune, and for a moment the years and wind seem to fade away until only sound remains. My feet tap along to a rhythm I’ve never heard but I’m sure that I’ve felt, and his head bops up and down to the beat. This, I realize, is what I was aiming for. Over it, he speaks up, voice shaking, “When you’re playing, there ain’t nothing but you and the sound, just you and the sound. That’s what that promise means. Long as someone’s helping an instrument sing, long as there’s people living in the living room, this song is a song and this home is a home.”

He takes his hands from the keys, and the music breaks. I can hear it pulling at the back of my ears. My fingers twitch; I resist the urge to reach out and play, terrified I’ll ruin his work. He looks at me, then, with a benevolent smile, guides my hands to the last spot he found, and pulls away. I stare at my fingers, placed to continue.

“Could you make me a promise, son? My grandkids won’t take that sign, and ain’t none of my kids looking to learn the piano anymore. They’ll take the house, sure, but this piano’ll suffocate in here.” 

Mr. Morgenstern taps the keys, pointing out where next to go as he talks, stopping a note away from the phrases’ resolution. My fingers trace after, stiff and mechanical, and the sound rings heavy and lopsided, bumbling gracelessly. Still, his own hands continue, guiding forward, as he whispers, not waiting for my answer. Words of affirmation follow each key, and for a moment, it’s like I’m a kid again, sitting beside him as he shows me the scales for the first time. I remember him preparing me for my first recital, taking me through each winding turn of the phrases calmly, ever-patient. He would sit in that rocking chair and nod along, tapping his fingers on the wicker in time with the bounce and hop of the songs I had learned and picked up at the music store on the other side of town. Turning in these moments, weeks upon weeks, I realize that this is the last chance I’ll ever get to play piano with him. 

I feel his hands pull away as the phrase repeats and he lets me go as fast as I’d like over them, picking up speed and confidence. Twelve years his student, and only now do I realize that he’s been with me through every scrape, every mistake, and yet still finds it in him to smile at me. I fumble over the keys, forcing myself to slow again, until I stop. My voice comes out shakier than I intend, but it’s honest. “I… I’m not sure how I can do that. I’m not you. I’m not…”

He looks at me then with kindness, “Who says, eh? I’m not asking you to be nothing, son. I want you to promise me you’ll take this piano and that sign, and you’ll try. I’m not asking you to be great, ‘specially when I never was,” he reaches over and looks me in the eye, “Promise you’ll be good. Good to this piano, good to the people who come in ‘cause of that sign, good to these songs, and most of all good to yourself. Can you do that?”

I nod. I’d resist the urge to cry, if I had the attention left to split between the piano and Mr. Morgenstern. I sniffle. I start again. For a moment, my fingers stumble, but I push on, asking the piano to sing with me one more time. In the quiet, I think I hear him sniffle, too.

The rest of the lesson passes quietly, going on like any other. We say our goodbyes, our last smiles and a final hug. Just as Mr. Morgenstern predicted, he’s dead by Saturday. The house passes on to his daughter, and their family moves in afterwards, unpacking the decades of memories locked in the rooms upstairs. He had written me into his will, his only student. His funeral is a short, sweet affair. I meet his kids and grandkids, memorize their names, and swap stories with them. I sit at the piano, playing his songs as we say our goodbyes. It takes another three months after to move that piano into my apartment, and a month more to get it tuned and inspected, just like I said I would. The day after it was tuned, I asked it to sing for me again. I set Mr. Morgenstern’s sheet music on the stand, brush my fingers along the keys, and play. The first notes ring like water droplets falling, and the sound is high, crisp, and clear. A minor chord rolls out with the bass beneath, and I find my feet tapping to a song I never learned, but somehow always knew. Only then do I hang the sign on the door.

At first, people didn’t know what to make of it. They would hear the music, spot the sign, and peek in before heading off. Some would stay longer, drunk or tired, and ask what the sign meant. When I told them it was a promise, they would get confused, so I started telling them that the sign means what it says. They never really got it, but they’d always come back. Sometimes they’d show up hurt, broken up over a fight or a midterm gone wrong. Other times, they’d hang around for a drink, a friend, and a song. It isn’t long before those nights, where the room stands ready and the piano sings sweet, become my norm. As the days go by, I start to understand what Mr. Morgenstern meant, and I find myself greeting people the same way: “You can leave your worries at the door. You won’t need them here.”