For twenty-two years, this chill has always haunted my pores. As if it were only yesterday, I find myself submerged in memories of the past—deeply entrenched within me.

I blink my eyes open and glance towards the window. Countless raindrops adorn my room's glass, yet their beauty fails to coax a smile from my lips.

In a brief moment of silence, my blood returns to my brain, now under my control again after stilling. I make my way to the bathroom, performing my hollow morning routine.

"Cold."

Dressed, I head for the door and, halfway through, hear the sound of crunching. The television broadcasts a grating, indecipherable noise—meaningless to my ears.

The clinking of chair legs against the floor blends with the crunching sound. The strong aroma of meat and eggs fails to stimulate my appetite, overshadowed by the unpleasant noises that flood my ears.

"How's your class going?"

The question that haunts my mornings.

"Fine."

"Good," comes the quick reply.

That same answer has echoed for the past three and a half years, unchanging.

"You'll graduate by the end of this year. Next year, Father will introduce you to everyone he works with."

"Hmm," I murmur, chewing.

"It's getting late. I'm heading out now."

I feel his gentle touch on my shoulder, followed by the sound of the door opening and closing.

"It's still pouring," I say.

The television's sound changes. No more harsh male voices, now replaced by the gentle strains of a piano.

"Chopin. One of Mother's favorite pieces."

The soft voice of my elderly chauffeur, Mr. Romi, fills the space. He's been here even when Mother was still alive.

"This morning's rain, accompanied by this piece, will bring a refreshing touch to your soul, Master Rein."

I set down my fork and knife, wipe my face, and rise. I head to the door and into the car, which has been running since earlier.

A moment later, the car door opens.

"It seems the morning therapy hasn't quite worked," Mr. Romi says with a weary tone.

The soft sound of the front gate opening is followed by the car beginning to move slowly, accompanied by the relentless patter of rain above me.

Without the radio—I've long forbidden its use while I'm in the car—my ears are troubled by the noise that exceeds the sound of the rain.

The drumming of the rain becomes the rhythm of my brief journey.

When the car stops, someone opens my door from outside. A deep voice greets me: welcome.

I step out of the car and quicken my pace. I don't feel the raindrops until I glance to the side and see someone holding an umbrella.

My steps halt before the entrance. I continue my walk, accompanied by the roar of life inside.

Someone calls my name, their footsteps drawing closer.

"Reinaldy! I need to speak with you, now!"

The voice of a woman in her late thirties echoes in my ears.

"I haven't seen any improvement in the last exam you took. What's going on? Don't you want to pass my course?"

"...," I respond with silence.

"Listen! I don't care about your status here; all my students are equal, so—"

"Good morning, Ms. Salma! Oh my, it's raining so heavily..." The sudden voice cuts off my conversation with the lecturer. From the tone, it's the campus rector, Mr. Ronald.

"Good morning, Mr. Ronald. I'm in the middle of talking to my student."

"Oh, good morning, young Reinaldy. How are you? Well? Is your father well?"

"Hmm," I nod slowly.

"That's good, hehe. So, what's the matter, Ms. Salma? Why are you so worked up this early in the morning? Calm down, please!"

"Mr. Ronald... I'm here advising him because his grades haven't improved since the start of my exams!"

"Nonsense! His grades are excellent! Just ask any other lecturer... he gets 'A's in all his subjects."

"Unfortunately, I'm not the type of lecturer to accept that, Mr. Ronald!"

"Enough! Let's discuss this in my office!" His voice rises.

"Poor Reinaldy, arriving only to be treated this way. Now, go to your class. I'll handle this. Focus on your studies, and please convey my regards to your father."

At the end of his sentence, Mr. Ronald gives an odd smile.

I walk away from them. As I distance myself, their competitive voices remain faintly audible.

Standing before the elevator, I squeeze in with other students as the doors open. In this cramped space, the noise continues to disturb me—voices of unclear tones, filled with harsh remarks about someone who is the topic of their conversation.

Upon reaching my floor, I exit with relief and quick steps.

I glance at the window, seeing the same uninteresting view, but I always do this, as if it were a routine.

My ears catch a different sound from the crowd—a gentle piano melody.

I walk towards the source of the sound. Unwittingly, I pass my classroom and reach the end of the corridor.

I stop in front of an open room. Inside, a woman with long hair is playing the piano, but...

"The notes are wrong... you! You're playing it wrong!" I blurt out spontaneously.

The piano stops. The woman turns around, her sharp gaze meeting mine.

"Is that so?"

Her intense eyes and warm smile seem to enchant me, freezing me in place.

"Fantaisie Impromptu – Chopin in C minor. That's not how it's played."

"If you're so sure, come here and show me how it should be done."

"I-I... can't," I reply quietly, lowering my gaze.

Moments later, she pulls my left hand.

"You've disturbed my piano playing, now you must take responsibility."

"Take responsibility?" I ask, bewildered. Her soft hand and her tight, somewhat revealing clothing hit my mind like a hammer.

I'm forced to sit at the piano, my body trembling with unease. My fingers and teeth quiver, sweat beads forming despite the cold room.

"So... you can't play it?" Her tone is slightly mocking, though not harsh.

She sits beside me, signaling for us to be positioned in the center of the piano.

Her fingers begin to dance over the keys, replaying the Chopin piece. The beginning notes are gentle, and then her playing quickly evolves.

"Huh?" Without realizing it, I stop her playing by gently touching her wrist.

"You don't seem to like my style, is that right?" she asks, her face drawing close, intimidating me.

"Not really. It's just... that not chopin' anymore."

"Then... can you play it correctly?" she asks softly, her voice sharp in my ear.

My hands move slowly, touching the piano keys.

"Sorry..."

I stand and run out, leaving her alone in the room.

I flee with my teeth chattering, a headache pounding. My vision shifts abruptly; the campus corridor fades, replaced by a city street besieged by a storm, crowded with people suddenly halting and staring at me with their phones as if I were the main attraction.