Maya gripped the handle of her suitcase, her fingers trembling slightly as she gazed at her new apartment building. For now it was hers-a far cry from the grand apartment she had dreamed of, but she'd settled. The building seemed to have seen better days, tucked away quietly in this empty corner of the city. Years of wear and tear showed in its faded red brick walls and cracked windows. But, during the stillness of the afternoon, there was about its antique something wondrously beautiful, and a heavy, rich smell of old wood, and unwritten stories, floated through the air.
She hadn't thought of herself as one of those who needed too much-at least, not space to breathe, a certain kind of place where she might lie low with all the memories that had almost swallowed her whole. The last couple of months had been a rush of disappointments, missed chances, and heartaches. Today, however, was the beginning: cutting loose from noise, chaos, and people who never understood her need for solitude.
She paid for the cab and got out, walking through the half-opened front doors into the dimly lit lobby. There had been nothing special about the ride, the driver only noting that the building was pretty run down. He was courteous enough, but Maya knew he did not typically come to this part of town with passengers. She didn't care. The place was cheap, and it was all she could afford. That was enough for her right now. She just needed peace.
The creaking door swung open in front of her as she stepped into darkness. Old furniture and dust-scented air filled the dimly lit hallway before her. Most flyers on the corkboard by the entrance were out of date, but this one caught her eye: "Community Movie Night," in bold letters. She smiled faintly. That was just what she needed—simple, human. She memorized to look later.
The stairs groaned under her as she mounted to the second floor. Each step echoed the age of the building. Maya's thrumming heart throbbed faster as she turned toward her new door–2B. She slid the key into the lock, the metal turning with a satisfying click.
She opened the door and went inside, instantly enveloped in the coolness of the apartment. The place was small: a mere kitchenette, a diminutive living room, and bedroom - it was nothing fancy. Nothing trying to overwhelm. That is precisely what she needed. The bare walls, little and inviting, seemed to beckon her, and as she stepped into the place, a feeling of composure came over her.
Maya set down her suitcase by the door and began to unpack. Each box she opened, the weight of the past was evident in the objects within the box. That sketchbook lay open for months untouched; that picture frame was never hung, and then there was that one old mug which once had been a gift from someone who mattered no longer. Everything felt miles away, pieces of some other person's life.
She had left the mug on the countertop, its ill edge chipped and catching her eye. She had let out a small, almost inaudible sigh as she trailed her fingers over the edge. It was in her mind's eye now, in all its wholeness. And it was the veritable embodiment of something beautiful. She felt broken, much like this piece of crockery.
She had no time for reflection on that. A sunset was approaching, and beyond the windows of her rooms, she could hear a buzz of noise - an ordinary case of city din. She lay down on the couch with a cup of tea cradled in her hands, looking at the sinking sun to the horizon, where only streaked colors would remain after.
That's when she heard it.
At first, she could hardly make out the sound—a soft, haunting melody drifting through the thin walls of the apartment. Maya froze, her breath catching in her throat. The music was delicate, almost fragile, as if each note was a whisper of something lost. Her heart ached at the sound. There was something about it—something that resonated deep within her. As if the music spoke directly to her heart, filling up empty spaces that she had put on best possible pretenses of not noticing.
She stepped back, her fingertips moving delicately across the cool of the wall as if she could almost reach in and touch the feeling within the notes. The music swelled, and Maya closed her eyes, letting herself be swept away by it. It was a piano, she realized. And it was beautiful—raw, emotional, like a forgotten love story told in each chord.
For the first time in months, her heart worked to beat in time with the music-a steady pulse that could easily match the aching ache she's carried for so long. It was the first stirring inside of her, heart, flicker of life and connection. It was as if the music was calling her, through the wall reaching out to touch something deep within her soul.
Maya sat on the floor. She laid out her sketch pad in front of her, across her lap. Her pencil moved in lines and curves, seemingly without her lead telling it what to do. She didn't know what she was drawing yet: only she'd drawn it out to somehow make the feeling of the music finish itself inside of her. The figure emerged. A figure sitting at a piano, posture slumped as if weighed down by the weight of the world.
Hours had passed with not a refrain dying. Maya hadn't noticed the passing of time until just when the last whisper of the last note faded into silence. The room was quieter, now it seemed emptier. But the tune would not leave her heart-it softly echoed in mind.
Maya looked at her paper, striving to regain her breath. She was looking at a piece of paper with a living figure on it. The figure was no longer a person sitting at a piano; this was a human being who had loved, lost, and lived. She knew that deep ache in her chest.
She felt her pulse quicken as she stood, her eyes fixing on the door to 2A. For a moment, she was stuck, not quite sure what she wanted to do. Knock? Leave a note? She had no idea why she'd suddenly been struck with this weird fascination, this need to get in touch with the sound of the music. She did.
She grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled a hasty note:
"Thanks for the music. It was beautiful."
Her hand shook as she slid the note under the door, hoping that the figure on the other side of the door would read it, or even see it, and yet she didn't care to wait: she just needed to utter the words of thanks, at least one time.
As Maya walked back to her apartment, she felt that something new was flickering out there, small as a tiny flame. This was quiet excitement, possibility. Maybe, just maybe, this was the fresh start and not just an escape. Maybe it would become something real.
For the first time in a long while, Maya felt hope.