Disclaimer: Newsie ownage would give me indigestion. I don't own it. Just the story. Also don't own Claire de Lune.

Claire de Lune

Six years. He had been eleven last time he touched a piano. Eleven... young and foolish. He sat gingerly on the bench, knowing perfectly well that if anyone caught him, he'd be dead.

It was a Steinway grand of beautiful, glossy ebony wood. The keys were shiny ivory. To Jack, it seemed as if it had never been played. Tentatively, he reached out his hand and pressed down the keys of a C Major cord. The sound was full and luscious.

Jack didn't think about it. His fingers strolled up and down the keyboard playing scales. His ears relished the sound.

As if they had a will of their own, Jack's fingers picked out familiar passages of pieces he had once known. The beginning of Gershwin's Prelude No. 1, a random selection from the middle of Debussy's Golliwog's Cake Walk, a passage from one of Scarlatti's sonatas... and his fingers took position for the beginning of Debussy's Claire de Lune.

Jack pulled his hands off the keyboard as if they'd been burned. His eyes stung with tears brought on by bitter memories.

She's loved that song. In her last months, Jack would come in every day after school and play for her Claire de Lune. The piano had been moved into her bedroom specifically for that purpose. He would come home and drop his backpack and his coat in his room, then tiptoe into her room to play the song his fingers knew better than any, sometimes more than once. When she was satistfied, he would kiss her cheek and leave.

He had never imagined she'd die.

Jack pushed aside the memories of his mother and set into Claire de Lune. His fingers rolled over the notes, hitting them with surgincal precision as his locked up emotions poured through his hands into the sweet, beautiful melodies. By the end of the song, his cheeks were wet and he felt tired.

Behind him, someone said, "I'm so glad you've taken liberties with my piano." Mr. Pulitzer stood, hands on hips, glaring at Jack's stiff back.

"I'm sorry, sir," Jack replied quietly, without looking up. "My... my mother died to that song. I'm sorry."

And with that, Jack stood and walked out. He never touched a piano again.