At the end of a quiet lane in Brighton stood an old brick house, its windows fogged by time. Inside lived Margaret, a retired piano teacher, and Whiskers—a black-and-white cat with green eyes and a stubborn personality.

Whiskers wasn’t the kind of cat who enjoyed cuddles or being carried. He preferred sitting on the piano lid as Margaret played, flicking his tail in rhythm to the melody. For years, the two shared that routine: mornings with tea and Chopin, afternoons in the garden, and evenings by the window, watching the world fade into twilight.

Margaret had once been famous for her concerts. Her fingers danced across the keys like poetry. But age had taken her strength; arthritis stiffened her joints, and soon the music slowed. Still, every day she played—sometimes only a few notes, sometimes whole sonatas—because Whiskers expected it. Whenever she stopped, he would tap her arm lightly with his paw, as if reminding her, “Again.”

When her husband passed away, Whiskers became her companion in the silence that followed. He slept on his side of the bed, guarded her from loneliness, and meowed softly when she cried. Margaret would laugh through her tears, saying, “You’re the best student I ever had.”

Years rolled by. One winter, Margaret fell ill. The hospital visits grew longer, and Whiskers stayed with the neighbors. But every day, around dusk, he escaped their house, slipping through snow and wind to sit on Margaret’s doorstep, waiting. He would press his nose to the door, meowing faintly, hoping she’d open it and sit at the piano again.

When Margaret finally returned home, she was frail, her hair silver and thin. But she smiled when Whiskers jumped onto her lap. “I missed you, my darling boy.”

That night, she sat at the piano again. Her hands trembled, but she began to play. The melody wavered—broken, hesitant—but it was still music. Whiskers purred on the lid, eyes half-closed, tail swaying to the rhythm.

That was their last song together.

The next morning, the neighbors found Margaret slumped over the piano, her face peaceful, a faint smile on her lips. Whiskers lay on her shoulder, unmoving.

They were buried together beneath the cherry tree behind the house. The piano was left inside, untouched.

For weeks, the house was silent. Then, one night, a neighbor walking home heard faint notes drifting from Margaret’s window—soft, like a lullaby. When she peered inside, she saw the piano lid lifting gently, as though a small weight pressed upon it… and a black-and-white shadow curled atop it, purring.

Every year, when the cherry tree bloomed, people said they could still hear the music—gentle, wistful, accompanied by the soft rumble of a cat’s purr.

And if you pass that lane on a spring evening, you might catch it too:
A piano playing somewhere behind an open window, and the spirit of Whiskers keeping time with his tail.