“Used to.”
By thirty, Prince had buried that old man, his mother, and two dreams. The first was playing jazz piano—he’d sold his Fender Rhodes to pay for the funeral. The second was love, a woman named Celeste who left when the money ran dry. Now, his kingdom was a four-bay garage called “Richardson & Son” (no son, just him), and his subjects were dead alternators and seized brake calipers. prince richardson
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. “Used to
Prince didn’t answer. He just handed her the keys. “Fuel pump’s done. Purrs now.” Now, his kingdom was a four-bay garage called