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The worn piano keys whispered beneath his touch, a melancholic tune swirling through the cramped apartment. Each note was a memory, a sigh of longing, a prayer whispered to a sky choked with city smog. He closed his eyes, the melody carrying him back, back to a time when laughter echoed through these same walls, when calloused hands guided his own, when a gruff voice filled with love spoke of music as a language that could mend a broken heart. "Music, boy," the voice echoed, a bittersweet reminder of dreams passed down and a legacy left to shoulder. "It's a language that speaks to the soul. It can build bridges where words fail." The boy, no longer five but on the cusp of manhood, clung to the memory like a lifeline. He poured his grief, his hope, his dreams into the melody, each note a brushstroke on the concrete canvas of his world. This was his inheritance, his burden, his salvation. He was Marcus Johnson, a son of the Bronx, and this was his symphony.
