In my previous life, in the first house we ever truly called ours, my father bought a piano.

  It looked antique, almost aristocratic in its posture. Dark wood, slightly faded at the edges, the faint scent of varnish lingering whenever the lid was lifted. It stood in the living room like a silent expectation. Neither my father nor my mother knew how to play it. They placed their hope on me instead.

  “You can learn,” my mother said once, patting my head as if she were appointing me the family’s future musician.

  They enrolled me in piano lessons during the early years of primary school. I attended. Physically.

  Mentally, I was somewhere else.

  The only thing I truly looked forward to after each lesson was playing with the piano teacher’s son. His name was Jonathan. We would sit on the floor and play the board game Sorry, argue over cards, and once in a while he would let me try a video game featuring SpongeBob SquarePants. In that game, SpongeBob constantly needed to find water to soak himself before drying out completely. It was stressful and ridiculous and far more exciting than scales and finger exercises.

  Why was I not interested in piano?

  Because it was inefficient.

  From as early as I could remember, I believed only one thing mattered. Exam grades. Results. Rankings. Everything else was noise. Art, music, creativity. They felt ornamental. Useless in the grand competition of life.

  As I grew older in that previous timeline, I realized something ironic. Those ornamental skills were powerful. They impressed people. They made one likable. They opened doors that grades alone could not.

  Too late.

  So in this life, I corrected it.

  I took piano lessons seriously.

  But mastery is not built in a season. There are grades, examinations, incremental progress measured in years. I did not have the luxury of time to become a virtuoso. I needed efficiency again, but a smarter kind.

  If I could not master everything, I would master one thing.

  “River Flows in You” by Yiruma.

  I told myself I would perfect that single piece. Not a simplified one hand melody. The full arrangement. Both hands. The flowing arpeggios. The emotional build. Every dynamic.

  When I requested special focus on that piece, my piano teacher frowned.

  “That is outside the structured syllabus,” she said. “And it requires additional time. The tuition fee does not cover that.”

  I already knew her weakness.

  Jonathan.

  He struggled badly in school. His grades were embarrassing. After each lesson, instead of rushing home, I began sitting with him.

  “Let’s try this question again,” I would say casually, pencil in hand.

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  His mathematics improved. Then his English. Slowly, visibly.

  I made sure he was proud of it.

  “You improved because of your hard work,” I told him, knowing very well what he would repeat later.

  As expected, he sang my praises to his mother.

  One evening, after Jonathan left the room, she cleared her throat.

  “You may learn that piece,” she said. “But only that one.”

  Exception granted.

  Years passed.

  Now it is Primary Year 6 again.

  In my previous life, during musical class, I would stare at the black piano at the front of the room and feel a sting of regret. I had the lessons. I had the instrument at home. Yet the only thing I could play was London Bridge Is Falling Down with one hand.

  I used to imagine standing up, performing something beautiful, rising in popularity.

  It remained a fantasy.

  Until now.

  14 February.

  Valentine’s Day.

  Class 6B settled into the musical classroom. The chatter was loud, chaotic, slightly charged with that preteen awareness of the date.

  The teacher had not yet started the lesson.

  Then Jason stood up.

  “Today is Valentine’s Day!” he shouted. “And Zack has a surprise for Elaine. He wants to play a song for her!”

  My eyes widened.

  My jaw nearly dropped.

  Monstrosity.

  The entire class erupted.

  “Play it!”

  “Zack, go!”

  Some of the boys who secretly admired Elaine stiffened. Their expressions hardened. They were hoping, praying, that I would crash and burn.

  For half a second, I froze.

  This was not planned.

  Then instinct kicked in.

  If I hesitated, the teacher would begin class. The momentum would die. The moment would turn awkward. Mild embarrassment would replace spectacle.

  My fingers already knew what to do.

  I stood up without arguing.

  Elaine looked stunned. “Wait, what? I didn’t even say anything.”

  Jason grinned like a villain who had successfully triggered chaos.

  I walked to the piano.

  As I sat down, I felt something quiet inside me settle. Years ago, I prepared for this. I just did not know when it would come.

  I placed my hands on the keys.

  The first notes fell gently into the room.

  Soft. Controlled. Even.

  The opening arpeggios flowed like clear water slipping over smooth stones. My left hand maintained a steady undercurrent while my right hand carried the melody with deliberate restraint. No rushing. No trembling.

  The classroom noise faded.

  I kept my posture relaxed. Wrists level. Shoulders loose. The dynamics gradually expanded as the piece moved forward. The melody rose slightly in intensity, then receded, then rose again with fuller harmony. My fingers crossed smoothly during the quicker passages, each note clean, no accidental collisions.

  By the time the piece reached its central swell, the atmosphere had shifted.

  It was no longer about Valentine’s Day.

  It was no longer about Elaine.

  It was about the sound filling the room.

  The boys who wanted me to fail were no longer smirking. They were watching.

  A few girls leaned forward unconsciously.

  Even Jason, who started this circus, went silent.

  The teacher had already approached the doorway when there were about thirty seconds left. She stood there, expression unreadable at first. Then slowly, confusion.

  I had never performed like this in school before. She was certain she had never taught this to any student in this class.

  The final sequence approached.

  I allowed the ending to breathe. Not abrupt. Not dramatic. Just a controlled decrescendo, the last notes dissolving gently into silence.

  My hands lifted from the keys.

  The room stayed quiet for a heartbeat longer than expected.

  Then applause erupted.

  Not explosive. Not wild.

  But sincere.

  I stood up.

  My mind whispered, Why not finish it properly?

  As I walked toward Elaine, I slipped my hand into my pocket and palmed the small prop rose I had carried for years. Just in case.

  I stopped in front of her.

  She looked flustered, cheeks slightly pink, clearly overwhelmed.

  I reached behind her ear casually.

  “What is this?” I said lightly.

  With a small flick of my fingers, the rose appeared between them.

  A few gasps.

  A few laughs.

  I handed it to her.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, Elaine.”

  No kneeling.

  No confession.

  No pressure.

  Just a gesture.

  She accepted it, still stunned. “You’re insane,” she whispered, but she was smiling.

  I turned and walked back to my seat without waiting for further reaction.

  The teacher finally found her voice.

  “Class,” she said slowly, still looking at me, “take out your textbooks.”

  The lesson began.

  But something had shifted.

  In my previous life, I stared at the piano with regret.

  In this life, I walked away from it with closure.

  One song.

  That was all I needed.