Сумне фортепіано

The sad piano sounds like an old friend who couldn't keep quiet again and poured out everything that was hurting. The air smells of wine, smoke, and the evening habit of not counting glasses. Time flows by like water, which you can't catch up with anymore. Only a moment remains: warm, a little drunk, slightly philosophical. Conversations about fate, about the years, about the gratitude you don't always have time to express. It makes you feel soft inside, like after the rain. Because happiness, it turns out, isn't in wealth or plans for tomorrow, but in still having a laughing brother by your side and the piano grieving for both of you.