The Piano Bench.

The piano bench. It had been there for years. It was chipped and scuffed and the hinges creaked, there was even a place on the seat that had been worn down from years of being sat on. Nobody notices it anymore, they hardly ever did. It simply sits, sometimes in the sun, sometimes in shadow, year after year, until one day somebody picks it up and takes an axe to it and uses its shards as fire wood.
Nobody could ever imagine what it would say after so many years of silent observation. In the beginning when it was shinny and new with a bright young man who would sit upon it for hours playing the piano, making each note dance a spritly jig in the sunlight that poured through the window. Later the young man would sit with a choir, playing his dancing tunes, leading their voices as they rose and dipped in joyful harmony. These were happy times, times where bench and man were almost one, where the worn spot developing on both of their heads was a point of pride and maturity. This young musician who sat on the bench so regularly was getting older, his dancing tunes still filled the heart with joy, but what his heart really desired was another heart to share it with.