Prince Richardson [updated] -

“I know who you are,” she said. “I have a piano. A Steinway. It’s been in a basement for fifteen years. Needs someone who remembers how to touch keys.”

“You the owner?” she asked.

“I’m Prince,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag. prince richardson

“I don’t need a tuner,” she said. “I need someone to remind it what music sounds like.” “I know who you are,” she said

The name sat on him like a borrowed tuxedo—stiff, formal, and a little too big. Prince Richardson wasn't a prince. He was a mechanic from East Cleveland who smelled of grease and spoke in grunts. His father, a man with a cruel sense of humor, had named him after a racehorse he'd lost a fortune on the night Prince was born. It’s been in a basement for fifteen years