It was cold and dark in the auditorium. As Carlena pushed the doors open, she let in shafts of light that highlighted the motes of dust that hung and swirled in the air. Her mother and the owner, Hank, followed her in, silently, and settled themselves into the seats near the back.

The auditorium was well known to Carlena. She’d come here as often as she could as a child, loving the music. As she grew older, she had performed here many times herself. The last time was only a few months ago and she hadn’t been planning on coming here again but Hank had insisted. They had a new piano and he wanted her to be the first one to play it in its new home. He said it wouldn’t be right to do otherwise. Carlena wondered if her mother had anything to do with it, but she had seemed surprised when Carlena told her about it and her mother had never been a good liar. Regardless, she was glad to be back here to play even if it was only for an audience of two.

She climbed the steps up to the stage and made her way over to the piano. A solitary spotlight shone down onto it and made its polished surface shine. She walked around the piano, lightly touching its curved edges and inspecting the strings, hammers, and pedals. It was a tradition of hers, one that she had picked up from the very first piano recital she’d seen when the one playing had done this sort of inspection. At first, she thought that was just part of the process of playing the piano. She soon learned that it wasn’t normal, but she kept doing it all the same. She loved the connection she felt, the intimacy with the instrument, after doing her brief inspection.

At last she came over and sat down on the bench. She was so used to wearing a dress whenever she played that she moved to smooth out her skirts beneath her even though she was wearing jeans.

Heaviness weighed down on her. This would be her last time. She would never again don one of her performance dresses and make her way on stage. Never perform for others. Never make the piano reverberate with the power and emotion she had come to take for granted.

Even as she placed her fingers onto the keys, she felt the tears begin to form. There was no reason to stop them from coming. Every note was memorized long ago and her hands knew what to do. She let them glide and strike the keys as they passed over. The tones were rich and smooth and the resistance in the keys was perfect, allowing her to control with exactness the power of each note.

From time to time there were missed or incorrect note; something that she never would have done before. Now she just had to accept it. Even still, the music was beautiful to her. She moved with the music, ignoring, for the first time in weeks, the growing pain and stiffness in her hands that had led her to leaving the stage.

When the last note sounded, and then faded into silence, the pain in her hands returned. She rubbed them together even though it did little to assuage the pain. That, too, would be gone soon, though that knowledge brought her little comfort. Just a few months ago she had gone to her doctor to see why her hands were becoming stiff and painful. She feared she was developing arthritis. Now she would gladly exchange her reality for that possibility. Unfortunately, the tumors that were growing in her hands were what they found. It was all curable, no threat to her life since they’d caught them so early, but to remove them also require removing most of her fingers. Rather than be left with useless finger stubs, she’d opted instead to just have her entire hands removed. That way she could at least use prosthetic hands.

She played another piece, and then another. She lost track of time, playing and playing as though she could postpone her amputations if only she could just keep playing. Her ears rang as she pounded down upon the keys, and then came the gentle softness, her fingers barely gracing the keys as she stroked them. She played all of her favorite pieces. She played her mothers favorite piece. She even played Hanks favorite which was an old rag time number. She played for the sheer joy of playing.

At long last, she had no more music to play and so Carlena allowed the piano to fall and remain silent. She got up from the bench, turned towards the auditorium, and bowed. She knew it was pointless but just like her initial inspection of the piano, this too was tradition.

Applause began to sound in the auditorium. It began as she had expected, just the two members of the audience, but it quickly swelled into thunder. From where she stood on the stage, with the spotlight shining down on her, she couldn’t see anything beyond the edge of the stage. Then the house lights came up and her knees almost buckled beneath her. Every seat was filled. Everyone was on their feet, clapping, and a few threw bouquets of flowers to her. As she looked out into the audience, she realized she recognized most of them. They were the stagehands, theater directors, agents, audio engineers, and others who had worked with her in the past, had helped make her performances possible.

Before she could say anything, her mother and Hank were by her side. Hank patted her on the shoulder and her mother wrapped her up into a powerful hug.

“We will miss your music,” Hank told her, “and we couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to hear you perform just one last time.”

“Thank you,” Carlena managed to say through her emotions. “Thank you so much.”

Now more and more people were coming forward out of the audience. They all wanted to wish her luck, to give her gifts, or to just show her their support. None of them tried to shake her hands and she suspected her mother or Hank had warned them not to since doing so would have only increased her pain. As it was her hands ached from the playing, though it was easier to ignore at the moment.

Finally, the last person in the line of well wishers approached. It was Brandi, the audio tech for the auditorium. She held out a CD and thumb drive for Carlena.

“What’s this?” Carlena asked.

Brandi smiled and nodded upward, indicating for Carlena to look up. She did, and at first she didn’t see anything unusual. There were the usual sets of curtains and lights, but amongst them were also hanging microphones.

“We recorded the performance,” Brandi explained, “and a bunch of us were back there mastering the audio. As soon as you finished a song, we got to work on it, and we’ve just finished. We’ve also gotten to work on securing the rights for you so Hank doesn’t have to worry about any legal troubles should you ever want to see about selling some of those.”

There were no words. Hank, her mother, Brandi, and everyone had done so much to bring this all together. She had been in the process of recording her first album when they’d found out about her hands and that had put an end to that. Or so she’d thought.

“It’s the least we could do,” Hank said.

Carlena couldn’t speak, she was so overcome with emotion and gratitude, but everyone seemed to understand nonetheless. She wished there was more time, but she had to get to the hospital. Everyone lined up along the aisle, out the doors, and all the way to the car, continuing to wish her luck and looking forward to seeing her again.

It was a terrible thing still, to lose her hands, but she didn’t feel the despair anymore. She was loved, and she knew it. She felt it. And that would get her through whatever the future held for her.