The mansion looks as if it had closed its eyes to the fire of the sunset. A lady made of golden leaves breathes for a second and then collapses dragged by the wind, surrounding the empty marble fountain in the desolate park. Swirls of copper leaves dance on the dried grass, a sweet murmur of the nature indicating the resting time. But not everything is sleeping, no. Milady is still there, facing the familiar keys of the piano, inside the only room of the dwelling in which still has a light. Only one finger slides over a key, only one vibration that leaves through the window and dances with the wind, only one sound that joins the lullaby the autumn sings. And the rest of the fingers follow the first one, weaving a story of melodies over the piano’s ivory, liberated from the tormented soul of Milady. Nobody listens to her, in that mansion, uninhabited for thirteen years, when the woman who lived there died waiting for her fiancé, confined on a battlefield. The fingers continue sliding over the keys, every night is the same melody, it's the one that he taught her one evening before leaving. An autumnal breeze waves the curtains that were once white, and now are yellowish. The flame of the candle vanishes. When the moonlight looks over the room and paints the faded keys silver, nobody is there. 

Very good!

Softness and light (a story)

*maybe, arrested time?

Irreproachable English. I liked the leaves blowing in the wind. Some of the ancients believed that in the afterlife, the soul was a leaf that was blown about for all eternity.