A cold man in a suit sits in his intricate leather chair, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.  He seems to be enthralled with the Sunday paper.  
The beautiful music that is flowing from his wife’s fingertips cannot pierce the thick vines that have grown over his ears after all this time.  
He does not care enough to notice that what was once a majorly cheerful tune, has grown solemnly minor.
Hours later, he is at his computer, typing away.  Probably just work stuff, probably…

He is finally stirred by a gunshot, accompanied by an inharmonious crash of the keys.  The treacherous dissonance left ringing in his ears makes him realize how much he yearns for her sweet music.
He floats nervously into the piano room to find his wife’s body, crumpled over the crimson stained keys; lifeless.