The first time Lyra heard the piano, it was late at night.
She had just moved into her tiny apartment on the fifth floor of an old building in Paris. The walls were thin, letting in muffled conversations, distant footsteps, and occasionally, the hum of the city. But that night, as she lay in bed, a melody drifted through the walls—soft, melancholic, and heartbreakingly beautiful.
She sat up, her breath catching. The music was unlike anything she had ever heard, filled with longing and sorrow, yet it wrapped around her like a warm embrace. Who was playing it?
Night after night, the melody returned. Sometimes soft and tender, sometimes aching with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. Lyra found herself waiting for it, pressing her ear against the wall, letting the notes seep into her heart.
One evening, she couldn’t resist any longer.
Gathering her courage, she stepped out into the dimly lit hallway and knocked on the door of apartment 5B—the source of the music.
Silence.
She knocked again. “Excuse me? I live next door, and I just wanted to say… your music is beautiful.”
No response.
Lyra bit her lip and tried the handle. Locked. Of course. She sighed and turned away, her cheeks warm with embarrassment. Maybe he was shy.
But the music continued that night. And the next.
One evening, determined to meet the mysterious pianist, Lyra waited in the hallway. She sat by her door, listening, ready to catch him when he stepped out. But the hours passed, and no one emerged from 5B.
At dawn, she gave up and knocked again.
Still no answer.
Frowning, she went downstairs to ask Madame Rousseau, the elderly landlady.
“Apartment 5B?” Madame Rousseau blinked in confusion. “But my dear, that apartment has been empty for years.”
Lyra’s stomach twisted. “That’s not possible. I hear music coming from there every night.”
Madame Rousseau sighed. “You must be mistaken, child. No one has lived there since Augustin Moreau.”
“Who?” Lyra’s voice was barely a whisper.
“A pianist. A talented one. He lived there decades ago… until he disappeared.”
Lyra couldn’t let it go. That night, she pressed her ear against the wall again, waiting for the familiar notes.
They came. Soft, sorrowful, enchanting.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
No answer, just the melody.
The next morning, she convinced Madame Rousseau to unlock the apartment. Dust covered the furniture. A grand piano stood by the window, its keys untouched.
Lyra ran her fingers over them. The silence in the room was deafening.
Then, behind her, the piano played a single note.
From that day on, Lyra played alongside him, her fingers weaving harmonies with the unseen pianist.
And every night, his music answered her, whispering secrets only she could hear.
