El pianista pobre

Previously

…Mateo turned back to the piano, his fingers finding the keys with a newfound purpose. The rain still drummed against the window, but it no longer sounded like despair. It sounded like an accompaniment, a rhythm to the burgeoning symphony of his own potential. He began to play a powerful, soaring piece, his music filling the small room, pushing back the shadows, and for the first time, echoing with the sound of a dream on the cusp of becoming real. The echo of empty pockets was still there, a faint whisper in the background, but it was being drowned out by the glorious, resonant sound of possibility.