The wind rustled. The traveling peddler wandered the dusty land, and built rafts to cross lakes. He had to travel. It was His duty. What were His wares, that were so important as to spend His life wandering the dry, dead Earth? It was Joy. The forgotten art of Music.
Years and years of being a nomadic hermit made him hard, unaccustomed to human presence. But he had to continue. For the sake of Human Existence. He would arrive at a town, and play the only tune on the only instrument that He could play. The only instrument left. After the People of each town experienced Music again, the Piano Man moved on, though they may clamor and beg for him to remain. He never looked back at the pained faces. How ironic. His life was dedicated to keeping the Music alive, but He was so empty, so alone.
The Man wandered to a nearby town, sat down in the center and took out His small Piano, and tapped out His song. He knew only a few of the words. The rest were lost in Time. As usual, the People of the town poked their faces out of their homes, and slowly crowded to the Piano Man. He played the song a few times, then packed up His portable Piano, and moved on. Again. He hadn’t gone far when He realized that His perfect routine, maintained for 60 years, was broken. Someone had left the town with Him. Someone was following him. It was a Boy, who couldn’t have been more than 12 years old. There had been fewer and fewer of those over the time. Children. There had been a point in the history of Humanity, but outside of its known memory, when People became depressed, less willing to create new life, less joy in their own lives. They say that even though knowledge is power, ignorance is bliss. That’s why the Piano Man lived. To bring new joy to people, to renew the desire for survival.
He brusquely told the Boy to leave, for he would play no more songs at the town. His underused voice came out gravelly, like His personality. The Man kept walking. The Boy did too. He turned again. He pointed out to the Boy that the life of a nomad was tough on an adult, how much more so on a kid. Precious few of them as there were. The Boy stayed with him. The old Man shrugged it off and ignored the Boy.
And so His comfortably repetitive life continued. Only there was a Boy watching Him, sharing His food, neither of them speaking to each other for 7 years, communicating through other means. Time passed. The Boy grew. The Man grew, too. He grew old. He didn’t know His own age. Why should He? He must have been at least 80. The Boy, He realized, kept Him company, gave Him spirit. He felt it in His music. It was more meaningful, for the first time, it made Him... happy. Music isn’t the only ingredient of Joy, He realized. You needed... People to be happy. In the years of His solitude, He forgot this. But this Boy reminded him.
...The Pain! He felt a Pain in His left leg. He fell. He saw the Boy, who had tears in his eyes. He heard the bang of the old Piano as He fell on it. His time had come. He knew it would. He slowly died, painlessly, thinking of His quasi-“son”.

The Boy buried the Piano Man under a tree. He cried. He made an “X” with some branches over the earth to mark the place. The Boy knew, from watching and seeing the Piano Man, what he must do. He picked up the fallen piano, carried it with him, and started walking with it. When he got to the sad, empty town, he sat down in the center, as he saw his mentor do countless time over the ages. He took out his small piano, and tapped out his Master’s song. He knew only a few of the words. The rest were lost in Time. He sang those mystic words, their meanings long forgotten. He had heard them time and time again, and he knew he would be saying them for the rest of his life. And the Piano Boy sang the few words he knew of the cryptic, irretrievable song:

“Osaik Anyusi? Byth Adonser Lelite... Anthu Homuv Thub Raiv”

And so the Music lived on. And so the Joy lived on.