Word Count: 300.

Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.

Gaara pauses as the piano enters his sight through the corner of his eye. It sits in the dusty, darkened room, forlorn and unwanted, yet not covered in white sheets like the rest of the furniture.

Gaara steps uncertainly into the room, opening the shutters to let in a little light.

Yashamaru loved playing the piano. His long, clever fingers would flutter over the ivory keys, ringing up cheerful tunes and sad songs, for every hour of the day and night. It was the one thing he truly put his heart and soul into, and the result was almost feverish playing, of both quick and slow melodies, hour after hour until the tips of his fingers would almost bleed.

And once upon a time, Yashamaru had taught Gaara how to play. It had been a slow, painstaking experience (the Shukaku does not like music), compounded by Gaara's young age and lack of innate musical talent. Gaara had only brought up his piano playing skills to a passable level, but he at one time enjoyed playing the piano as much as his uncle.

Now, Yashamaru is dead, and Gaara hasn't played the piano in years.

He hesitates as he stands over the piano, a thousand old melodies rising from the abyss of memory to fill his mind once more, haunting and almost saddening.

Gaara still remembers the old songs. He still remembers the cool smoothness of ivory keys and the contrasting warmth of the wood. He still remembers every note, high notes and low notes.

He can still remember how to play. Gaara still recalls which keys to press, which pedals to put pressure on with his foot. He remembers how easy it was.

But no.

Gaara has not played since the day Yashamaru died, and that's not going to change.