If Only I Had a Piano

"Sometimes redemption doesn't come from doing something great—it comes from stopping long enough to recognise that the people around you are doing something beautiful."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of twilight, the camp's energy shifted. The day's work and discussions faded into memory, giving way to the casual camaraderie of the evening. The butter chicken sat warm in my stomach—a small miracle of spices and comfort that Luke had delivered through the Portal. The fire crackled its eternal rhythm, sending sparks spiralling upward into the darkening sky. The dust, mercifully, had settled with the cooling air, and for the first time all day, I could breathe without tasting grit.

The earlier tension still lingered at the edges of my consciousness—the argument with Luke, the dust I had thrown into the air in a fit of frustration, the weight of everything I had failed to do or be. But here, in the growing dark, with the fire's warmth against my face and the murmur of conversation around me, those failures felt slightly less crushing. Not forgotten. Just... bearable.

Amidst the growing din of laughter and spirited conversations, a distinct sound caught my attention—a raspy humming, gentle yet persistent, carried to me on the cool evening breeze.

Joel?

The recognition sparked a mixture of surprise and curiosity within me. Joel's voice, unmistakable in its gravelly tone—that roughness that came from having your throat cut and somehow surviving—seemed to weave through the air, drawing closer until the humming evolved into words. The transformation from a simple melody to lyrics felt almost magical in the growing night. I found myself turning toward the sound, drawn by something I couldn't quite name.

"Let us celebrate our story,

The words we've yet to write..."

The simplicity and depth of the words struck a chord within me, resonating somewhere deep in my chest where I kept the things I didn't talk about. There was something profoundly moving about hearing Joel sing, his voice carrying a weight of emotion and resilience that seemed to reach across the fire and grip me by the heart. This was a man who had been dead. A man who had been pulled from a river with his throat sliced open, blood soaking into the water, life draining away with every heartbeat. Glenda had stitched him back together with trembling hands and impossible hope. And here he was, singing into the evening air as if death were merely an inconvenience he had overcome.

The scar on his neck was visible even in the firelight—a ragged line of healing tissue that should have been a killing blow. Every note he produced was a small miracle, a defiance of the laws that governed mortality. His voice shouldn't exist. This song shouldn't be possible. And yet here it was, floating through the twilight like a gift none of us had known to ask for.

As I listened, a sense of familiarity tugged at the edges of my consciousness.

Where had I heard this tune before?

It felt like a distant memory, a song from another life, yet it was undeniably present, sung by a man whose strength I was learning to admire. I searched my memory—had I heard it on the radio during one of those long drives between Broken Hill and Adelaide? In a film that Claire had insisted we watch together, back when we still did such things? Perhaps it was simply one of those melodies that felt universal, as if it had always existed somewhere in the collective human unconscious, waiting for the right voice to give it form.

The melody, with its haunting beauty, seemed to encapsulate our collective experience—our struggles, our hopes, and the unwritten future that lay ahead of us. Joel's performance, unassuming yet powerful, served as a reminder of the human spirit's capacity to find beauty and meaning amidst adversity. He wasn't performing for an audience. He wasn't seeking applause or recognition. He was simply singing, the way people do when they think no one is listening, when the music rises up from somewhere inside and demands release. But we were all listening now, drawn in by the raw honesty of his voice, by the impossible fact of his survival made audible.

As the simple lyrics and melody enveloped me, I found myself reflecting on our journey, on the stories we were living and those yet to be told. The song, in its gentle insistence, seemed to invite us all to embrace the uncertainties of tomorrow with the same courage and solidarity that had brought us this far. We had lost so much. We had left behind families, careers, identities—everything that had once defined us. And yet here we were, gathered around a fire in an alien world, listening to a dead man sing about glory and unwritten words.

If that wasn't hope, I didn't know what was.

Glenda's sudden movement shattered the spellbinding atmosphere Joel's singing had woven around us. She stood up abruptly, her motion so swift that it startled several of us. The abrupt change in the air seemed to startle Joel too, his voice trailing off as his cheeks flushed a deep shade of embarrassment. The intimate circle of our gathering, momentarily disrupted, turned their collective attention towards Glenda, curious and slightly apprehensive.

Had she been offended by something? Was she leaving? Had the song triggered some painful memory that she couldn't bear to face? The uncertainty hung in the air like the smoke from our fire, and I felt a pang of sympathy for Joel, whose vulnerable offering had been so abruptly interrupted.

"Please, don't stop. You have a beautiful voice."

Glenda's words were a gentle encouragement, an olive branch extended to Joel to bridge the brief chasm her movements had created. Her sincerity, evident in her tone and in the softness of her expression, coaxed a small smile from Joel. The tension in his shoulders eased visibly. With a hesitant nod, he found his voice again, the melody resurfacing, soft and more hauntingly beautiful than before, as if Glenda's interruption had lent it a new depth—a fragility that made it even more precious.

Joel's hum filled the air once more, the tune weaving its magic anew, as Glenda disappeared momentarily into her tent. The anticipation of her return hung palpably in the air, a silent question mark that danced around the firelit faces of our assembly. What was she doing? Why had she left so abruptly if not to escape? I exchanged glances with Karen, who shrugged slightly, equally mystified.

When Glenda reemerged, violin in hand, a collective breath seemed to be drawn. The instrument, an unexpected addition to our simple gathering, promised a convergence of talents that none of us had foreseen. I hadn't known she played. In all the time we had spent together—erecting tents, rationing water, discussing strategies for survival—she had never mentioned it.

The firelight caught the wood's finish, sending warm reflections dancing across its curves. It was beautiful—clearly well-loved, well-used, an instrument that had told stories long before this moment. The varnish was worn in places where her chin would rest, where her fingers would find their familiar positions. This wasn't a decoration. This was a companion. A voice.

I watched, utterly captivated, as Glenda raised the violin to her shoulder, her bow poised with the confidence of a seasoned maestro. Her posture transformed—the practical, no-nonsense woman who had erected our tents and organised our camp, who had stitched Joel's throat closed and refused to let death claim him, became something else entirely. An artist. A musician. Someone who spoke in a language beyond words. The firelight caught her face, and I saw there an expression I had never seen before—something like reverence, something like joy.

Then, with a grace that mirrored the elegance of the melodies Joel produced, she began to play. The violin's voice, rich and emotive, harmonised with Joel's tune in a way that felt almost predestined, as if the song had been waiting for this very moment to be fully realised. The bow moved across the strings with the kind of fluidity that only comes from years of practice, years of devotion to craft. Each note seemed to know exactly where it belonged, weaving around Joel's voice like ivy climbing a trellis.

"You know this song?" Karen whispered, her inquiry reflecting the wonder that had gripped us all.

"Not until now," Glenda responded without missing a beat, her focus unwavering, her fingers moving with a passion that breathed life into the notes.

Her words suggested an improvised performance, yet the synergy between her violin and Joel's voice spoke of a deeper, intuitive connection between the musicians and the music. She was finding the melody as Joel created it, anticipating where it would go, wrapping her harmonies around his voice like a blanket. It was the kind of musical conversation that usually took years to develop—the unspoken understanding between performers who had played together so often that they could read each other's intentions in the spaces between notes.

And yet these two had never performed together. Had perhaps never even spoken at length. The music itself was the bridge, and they were crossing it toward each other with every phrase.

Brilliant! If only I had a piano.

The thought rose unbidden, accompanied by a longing so sharp it surprised me. My fingers began to move of their own accord, tapping against my thighs as if to find their own place within the burgeoning orchestra. The rhythm of my impromptu drumming mirrored the beat of the song, a subconscious contribution to the ensemble that filled the night air.

My hands knew what they wanted to do—they wanted to find keys, to add the bass notes that would anchor this melody, to build chords that would lift Joel's voice and complement Glenda's strings. I could hear the harmonies in my head, could feel the patterns my fingers would trace across the keyboard. A minor progression here. A suspended chord there. The kind of accompaniment that would support without overwhelming, that would add depth without stealing focus.

It had been too long since I had played. Too long since I had felt the familiar weight of ivory under my fingertips, the resistance and give of the keys, the way a piano could become an extension of your very soul. Back home, in what now felt like another lifetime, I would play late at night when the children were asleep—when Mack had finally stopped asking for one more story, when Rose had drifted off clutching her stuffed rabbit. I would sit at the old upright in the corner of the living room, the one Claire had inherited from her grandmother, and I would let my fingers find their way through whatever my heart needed to express.

Chopin when I was melancholy, the Nocturnes bleeding out into the darkness like tears I couldn't otherwise shed. Jazz when I needed to think, the improvisation freeing my mind to wander through whatever problem had followed me home from the office. Simple melodies when I missed my grandmother—the woman who had taught me to play before I was tall enough to reach the pedals, who had sat beside me on that bench for countless hours, her patience infinite, her praise hard-won but genuine.

She had been gone for fifteen years now. But sometimes, when I played, I could still feel her presence beside me, still hear her voice correcting my fingering, still smell the lavender perfume she had worn every day of her life.

Here, in this dust-covered camp at the edge of an alien world, my hands could only tap against my legs, keeping time with music I couldn't join. The piano I longed for was thousands of miles and an impossible distance away—sitting silent in a living room where Claire might be sleeping alone, where my children might be asking when Daddy was coming home.

The thought sent a spike of pain through my chest, sharp and unexpected. I pushed it down, forced my attention back to the music, back to this moment that was beautiful precisely because it existed against all odds.

As Joel's voice continued to weave its spell around us, effortlessly pouring out the lyrics that had already carved a niche in my memory, Luke took it upon himself to play the role of our benevolent host. With a careful, almost reverent tread, he moved around the circle formed by our gathering, his hands diligently offering drinks to ensure that no one was left wanting.

Our eyes met briefly as he passed me, and something unspoken moved between us—an acknowledgment of the harsh words exchanged earlier, a tentative suggestion that perhaps those words didn't have to be the end of the story. He handed me a cup without comment, and I accepted it with a nod that might have been gratitude, might have been apology. It was enough, for now.

I found myself drawn deeper into the mystique of Joel's song, the lyrics resonating with a poignant clarity that seemed to echo the very essence of our collective journey. Joel's voice, rich and full of an indefinable emotion, repeated the same four lines, each repetition imbuing them with greater depth and meaning:

"Let us celebrate our story,

The words we've yet to write.

How we all wound up with glory,

In the worlds we fought to right."

The simplicity of the words belied the complexity of our experiences, encapsulating the trials, triumphs, and the unyielding hope that propelled us forward. Each line was a testament to our resilience, a reflection of the disparate paths that had led us to this moment, united in purpose and spirit.

Our story. The words we've yet to write. Glory. Worlds we fought to right.

It was as if Joel had looked into the heart of our situation and distilled it into a handful of words. We were writing a story—one that had no map, no outline, no guarantee of a happy ending. We were fighting to make this world right, or at least liveable. And maybe, if we were lucky, there would be glory at the end. Not the glory of fame or fortune, but the glory of survival. The glory of building something from nothing. The glory of proving that human beings could endure anything, could find beauty anywhere, could create meaning even in the most meaningless of circumstances.

I thought of Rose, who would have loved this moment—the fire, the music, the stars that were beginning to emerge overhead. She would have danced, I knew. Would have spun in circles until she was dizzy, her laughter rising to join the melody. Mack would have pretended to be too cool for such things, but I would have caught him tapping his foot, caught the smile he tried to hide.

Claire... I didn't know what Claire would have done. I realised, with a pang of something like grief, that I couldn't picture her here. Couldn't imagine her face in the firelight, couldn't hear her voice among the others. Somewhere along the way, I had lost the ability to see her clearly. The woman I had married had become a stranger, and I wasn't sure anymore which of us had changed.

"To Joel!"

Luke's voice, suddenly booming and exuberant, cut through the night, his glass raised high in a toast that felt as much a celebration of the man as it was of the message he conveyed through his song. The sudden shift from quiet reverence to joyful exclamation might have been jarring, but somehow it felt exactly right—a release of the emotion that had been building in all of us.

"To Joel!"

The response was instantaneous, a chorus of voices rising to match Luke's call. The cheer, infused with warmth and genuine affection, rippled through the air, a sonic wave that seemed to carry far beyond the confines of our immediate surroundings into the quiet distance. It was a powerful, unifying moment, the kind that leaves an indelible mark on the soul, a reminder of the strength found in shared experiences and mutual respect.

I raised my own glass—water, precious water from the river that had somehow become our lifeline—and joined the toast. The liquid was cool against my throat, tasting faintly of minerals and earth, of this world that was slowly becoming home.

Joel's face, illuminated by firelight, showed a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. He wasn't used to being celebrated, that much was clear. His cheeks flushed, and he ducked his head slightly, one hand reaching up to touch the scar at his throat as if to remind himself that this was real, that he was real, that the voice emerging from his damaged throat was truly his own. But he deserved this celebration. After everything he had been through, after death itself had tried to claim him and failed, he was still here. Still singing. Still fighting.

As the echoes of our cheers blended with the night, I felt a surge of gratitude for this community, for the individuals who had become more than just fellow settlers—they were family. Not the family I had left behind, but a family nonetheless. The kind of family you choose, the kind that chooses you back. In this spontaneous celebration, amidst the laughter and raised glasses, I recognised the profound truth in Joel's lyrics. Our story, still unfolding, was one of shared glory, of battles fought not just for survival but for the right to forge new worlds from the ashes of the old.

Glenda lowered her violin, cradling it against her chest like something precious—like a child, like a memory, like a piece of her soul made tangible. Joel's voice faded into silence, but the melody seemed to linger in the air, reluctant to leave us entirely. The notes hung there, suspended in the smoke and starlight, slowly dissolving but never quite disappearing.

And for the first time since I had told Luke to fuck off, since I had thrown dust into the air in frustration, since the weight of my failures had threatened to crush me—I felt something like peace.

Not happiness, exactly. Not contentment. But something close to acceptance. This was my life now. These were my people. And together, somehow, we would write the words we had yet to write.

My fingers stilled against my thighs, the phantom piano fading back into memory. But the music—the impossible, beautiful music—stayed with me long after the fire had burned to embers and the camp had fallen silent.