Prince Richardson Review

Prince drove to her address after work. The house was a Victorian in disrepair—peeling paint, a sagging porch. In the basement, under a single bulb, sat the piano. He sat on the bench, dust rising like ghosts. He pressed middle C. The note was flat, tired, but alive.

“You the owner?” she asked.

“I don’t need a tuner,” she said. “I need someone to remind it what music sounds like.” prince richardson

“At least the horse had potential,” his father used to say. Prince drove to her address after work