And the real piano, unlike the virtual one, made the apartment shake with something that no algorithm could simulate: a living room, a living man, and a love that refused to become a ghost.

She had never played piano in her life. She was a violinist. But there she was, picking out a melody with one finger on the virtual keys. It was the tune she used to hum while cooking dinner—a silly, made-up song about burnt toast and forgotten groceries. Elias had recorded it once on his phone, years ago, but the phone was long dead.

He tore off the visor, furious. The real piano sat in the corner, mocking him.

He pressed middle C.

His daughter, Mira, tried everything. She brought a therapist. She brought a kitten. She brought a new sound system. Nothing worked. Elias would sit in his armchair, staring at the piano as if it were a coffin.

He sat down. The haptic gloves were so sensitive he could feel the simulated texture of the ivory keys: cool, smooth, forgiving.

But now, for the first time, he walked toward it. He lifted the heavy lid. He sat on the bench. The keys felt cold and real.