Emily Harper had been a gentle soul since she was a child. Her mother often reminded her:
Our girl inherited Georges bigheart; he helped everyone he met, though he didnt live long. Now youre carrying on his good deeds, even if youre still young, you rescue every little creature you can find.
Emily grew up, finished school, got a job and moved out of her parents house into her grandfathers flat in Camberwell. She stayed as kind and fair as ever, always ready to lend a hand to people and to animals alike, even when some folks thought she was a bit odd.
She must be from another planet, they muttered, shes not of this world.
One rainy autumn afternoon, Emily was returning from the local supermarket when she spotted an elderly lady struggling with two halffilled shopping bags.
Good heavens, her hands are trembling, her back is bent, Emily thought sympathetically, how many years has she carried on?
She hurried over and recognised Mrs. Margaret Whitfield, her neighbour from the same block.
Hello, may I give you a hand? Emily offered, taking the bags from the ladys arms.
At first Mrs. Whitfield recoiled, startled, then managed a shy smile.
Thank you, dear, but Im only going up to the fourth floor.
I know, I live on the second, Emily replied cheerily.
When Emily carried the bags up, she glanced around the flat and saw a good deal of dust and clutter.
Mrs. Whitfield, let me help tidy up a bit. I see its a struggle for you. I can finish later after I stash my groceries at home, she suggested.
Oh, love, you dont have to waste your time on me, the old lady protested.
Its no trouble I live alone and todays a day off, Emily replied.
From then on Emily visited Margaret regularly, often sharing tea in the evenings. She loved listening to the old woman play a battered upright piano a instrument Margarets late husband had bought when their son was born. Emily herself had learned piano at the local music school, though she never pursued it as a career; it was simply her mothers wish.
One morning Emily spotted Mrs. Doris Clarke, a senior neighbour from the fifth floor, perched on the communal bench.
Emily, I see youve taken Margaret under your wing. Good on you. Too bad about her. Her son and his wife live in Germany, welloff, and the grandchildren are in Manchester, but they only pop in on rare occasions, always whispering about waiting for her to pass so they can inherit, Doris mused, lacing her words with a hint of gossip.
Emily nodded and went up to Margarets flat.
Lord above, what wealth does Margaret really have? Just that piano and sturdy furniture, she thought, people love to spin yarns.
That very evening Emily arrived with a homemade cake.
Lets have some tea; Ill get the kettle going, she announced, heading for the kitchen.
Oh, dont fuss, dear, Margarets eyes twinkled. I just enjoy you stopping by.
They sat at the kitchen table, Margaret recalling her wartime childhood, her longgone husband, her son who had settled abroad, and the infrequent visits that left her feeling forgotten.
But you still have grandchildren, Emily prompted.
Grandchildren? Margarets voice trembled. They think Im a old hag losing her mind. Last year my grandson Gary came, gruff as ever, but at least he brought fruit. As he left he blurted, Oh gran, youre a bother now, go on your way. Thats how it is the granddaughter never shows up either, theyre just waiting for my death.
Winter set in and Margaret fell ill. Emily began dropping by each evening after work, bringing meals, medicines, and the occasional smile. One night she asked:
Would you like me to play the piano? Id love to hear it.
Emilys fingers brushed the keys, and a gentle melody filled the room. Margaret closed her eyes, soaking in the notes, perhaps drifting back to happier days.
It became their little ritual: Margaret telling simple stories, Emily softly accompanying with music.
Time passed, and Margaret grew weaker. Emily called the local doctor, administered the prescribed tablets, and even polished the floor for her. One day, while dusting, Margaret turned to her with a serious look.
Darling, Ive written my will. The flat will go to my grandchildren theyve been waiting forever. But I want the piano to be yours.
Emily blinked, taken aback.
Oh, Mrs. Whitfield, I dont need anything. Im practically a stranger to you, and I certainly dont want your grandchildren to think Ive taken advantage.
Nothing, dear. Ive sorted it all properly.
Spring arrived, and Margaret could no longer get out of bed. She called the doctor often, but never needed a hospital stay. One night she slipped away, alone. The evening before, as Emily sat beside her, Margaret whispered:
Sweetheart, dont forget the piano. Its yours, keep it safe for me.
The next morning Emily rushed in before her shift, only to find Margaret already gone. She dialed the number on Margarets phone, reaching Gary.
At the funeral Emily wept openly, as if shed lost a beloved grandmother. Later, Gary and his sister arrived to clear out the flat. They ushered Emily inside, and she found the piano standing proudly in the centre of an otherwise empty room.
While the movers take the piano to your flat, Gary announced, a smug grin on his handsome face, remember our dear motherinlaw. She was so eager for you to have it thanks for looking after her, he added with a patronising chuckle.
Gary and his sister exchanged a knowing look and muttered under their breath, Shes not from this world, just like our grandma.
Emily, slightly amused despite herself, thought, Well, they finally thanked me.
She carried the piano into her own flat, wiped the dust off its polished surface, and whispered, Thank you, Margaret. You truly were a kind soul.
For a few days Emily avoided the keys, unsure what to feel. One evening, after dinner, she opened the lid and pressed a chord. Inside the case she discovered a tiny wrapped parcel of delicate cloth. Unfolding it revealed a small jewellery box, its hinges creaking as she opened it. Inside lay a handful of sparkling pieces and a handwritten note:
Emily, dear, these are for you. For a heart as big as yours. Thank you for the last year of my life it was happy because you were there. Be happy, I wish it with all my heart. If you ever sell them, do, but keep at least one ring as a memory of me.
She closed her eyes, tears of gratitude streaming down her cheeks. The box contained rings, earrings, bracelets, two necklaces, and a photograph of a young Margaret.
Overwhelmed, Emily chose a single simple gold band, slipped it onto her finger, and let her fingers glide over the piano keys once more. A tender melody spilled out.
Later she packed the remaining jewels into a bag and took them to a pawn shop on Oxford Street.
These are family heirlooms, the appraiser asked, surprised.
Yes, theyre quite valuable, Emily replied.
He examined them, nodding, Indeed they are.
With the cash in hand, Emily drove to the outskirts of town, to an old twostorey house shed long admired. The weathered plaster revealed sturdy brickwork underneath. She imagined a future there and, after a quick look, bought the place.
Soon she approached a realtor, eager to purchase the fixerupper.
Are you sure? It needs a massive renovation, the agent warned.
Exactly that, Emily confirmed.
Eight months later, the renovated house opened its doors as a cosy haven for solitary seniors. The spacious sitting room featured the piano, surrounded by comfortable sofas and armchairs. The first residents were Mr. Ivan Simmons, a spry former accountant, and sisters Anne and Gloria, who had lost their home in a fire. More and more guests arrived.
Often Emily would sit at the piano, playing classical pieces on request:
Emily Harper, could you play something for us?
She played with such devotion that she could almost feel Margarets approving whisper between the notes: Well done, love.
Emily became the beloved owner of The Hearth, as the residents affectionately called it. Journalists visited, penned articles, and marveled:
She sold her jewellery and turned it into a sanctuary for the elderly. Would you regret that?
Not a whisper of one, Emily smiled. Isnt it wonderful to see these folks content? Grandma Gloria knits socks, and Mr. Simmons battles it out over a chessboard, waiting for his partner, Mr. Ignatius. I know Margaret would be proud of what Ive done with her piano. Ive gained something far richer love and kindness.
Two years later Emily married Stephen Clarke, a goodnatured man who delighted in helping his wife run the home. Together they managed the haven, their lives intertwined with the gentle hum of piano music and the cheerful chatter of their cherished residents.
