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                moderate  depression,  spiced  up  with  occasional  flourishes  of  despair.  And

                that  gave  her  hope,  and  even  the  sheer  sentimental  gratitude  of  being  able  to
                be  here,  knowing  she  had  the  potential  to  enjoy  watching  radiant  skies  and
                mediocre     Ryan    Bailey   comedies     and   be   happy    listening   to   music   and
                conversation and the beat of her own heart.

                   And    it   was   different   because,   above   all   other   things,   that   heavy   and
                painful Book of Regrets had been successfully burnt to dust.


                ‘Hi Nora. It’s me, Doreen.’
                   Nora was excited to hear from her, as she  had been in the  middle  of neatly
                writing  a  notice  advertising  piano  lessons.  ‘Oh  Doreen!  Can  I  just  apologise

                about missing the lesson the other day?’
                   ‘Water under the bridge.’
                   ‘Well,   I’m   not   going    to   go   into   all   the   reasons,’   Nora   continued,

                breathlessly.  ‘But  I  will  just  say  that  I  will  never  be  in  that  situation  again.  I
                promise,  in  future,  should  you  want  to  continue  with  Leo’s  piano  lessons,  I
                will   be   where   I   am   meant   to   be.   I   won’t   let   you   down.   Now,   I   totally
                understand  if  you  don’t  want  me  to  be  Leo’s  piano  teacher  any  more.  But  I
                want   you   to   know   that   Leo   is   an   exceptional   talent.   He   has   a   feel   for   the

                piano.  He  could  end  up  making  a  career  of  it.  He  could  end  up  at  the  Royal
                College    of   Music.   So,   I   would   just   like   to   say   if   he   doesn’t   continue   his
                lessons  with  me,  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  feel  he    should  continue     them

                somewhere. at’s all.’
                   ere    was   a   long   pause.   Nothing   but   the   fuzzy   static   of   phone-breath.
                en:
                   ‘Nora,  love,  it’s  okay,  I  don’t  need  a  monologue.  e  truth  is  we  were  in
                town  yesterday,  the  two  of  us.  I  was  buying  him  some  facewash  and  he  said,

                “I’m  still  going  to  do  piano,  right?”  Right  there  in  Boots.  Shall  we  just  kick
                off where we le off next week?’
                   ‘Seriously? at’s amazing. Yes, next week then.’

                   And the moment Nora came off the  phone she  sat at the  piano and played
                a  tune  that  had  never  been  played  before.  She  liked  what  she  was  playing,
                and  vowed  to  remember  it  and  put  some  words  to  it.  Maybe  she  could  turn
                it   into   a   proper   song   and   put   it   out   there   online.   Maybe   she   would   write
                more    songs.   Or   maybe    she   would   save   up   and   apply   for   a   Master’s.   Or

                maybe  she  would  do  both.  Who  knew?  As  she  played,  she  glanced  over  and
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