Maya woke to the familiar strains of piano music drifting through her walls. This time, though, the melody was different—it was slower, almost mournful. She stretched languidly in bed, her heart pulled by the emotion in the music. It was no longer just sound; it seemed like a message raw and unguarded.
She threw her blanket aside and padded over to her kitchen, music trailing her like a shadow. Her small apartment was crassly humble, but it had the little pieces of herself strewn everywhere: unfinished sketches tape-posted to the walls, jars of paintbrushes on her counter, and her oversized favourite mug awaiting its morning coffee.
As she brewed her drink, Maya kept darting glances at the note on her desk: Thank you for listening. She had gone to leave her sketch of a grand piano with fluttering butterflies under her neighbor's door yesterday. This short yet profound response was his way of acknowledging her efforts. It filled her with an inexplicable warmth.
By the time the coffee machine stopped sputtering, the song had moved on to a brighter melody. Maya sat by the window, taking small sips of her drink, watching the wake up of the world. The street below was already happening: shopkeepers rolling up their shutters, school bags and kids rushing past, a cyclist weaving through traffic. But for Maya, life was elsewhere.
She sat in the worn armchair beside the window, sketchbook open, pencil dancing across the page. The music had sketched the emotions it evoked - a swirl of light, softly curved lines tracing the peaks and troughs of the melody, and hands playing the piano surrounded by the glow of imaginary stars.
Maya chewed on her lip. He was the man at the piano-the mysterious neighbor whose music had become her muse. Does he play to let out his feelings, to try to get rid of them, or maybe for someone who no longer hears?.
Later that morning, a faint tapping at the door made her jump. She rushed to the door, only to find no one standing there. Instead, a piece of paper neatly folded lay on the doormat. She picked it up and unfolded it with shaking fingers. There, within, was a short message written in neat, deliberate handwriting: Do you always sketch so beautifully?
Her breath hitched. He had looked at her work! How? Had he been out when she had slid the sketch under his door? Or was he making the effort to examine the offerings she left him?
She couldn't smile wide enough as she placed the note on her desk. Her enigmatic neighbor wasn't just tolerating her attempts at communication-he was playing along.
Maya wanted to continue the bond, so she went for her sketch book. This time she sketched a garden in bloom, full of life and colors; this garden epitomized the joy his music brought her. A small note she wrote below the drawing read: Your music inspires me. Thank you.
She folded the sketch carefully as soon as the sketch was complete and slid it under his door.
She spent her time creating freelance commissions, but her thoughts rolled back to him all the same. Her clients' requests for illustrations of bustling cities, quaint villages, and fantasy creatures made for little excitement in the vibrant world that ran through her head courtesy of her neighbor's music.
The sounds resumed by the late afternoon. Maya put down her work and sat back in the chair, letting the tune wash over her. This time, she tried to imagine who the man was behind the music. Shy? Outgoing? Was he a professional or playing for himself?
As if it were answering her questions, she could hear a light tapping on the other side of the wall. Three knocks—deliberate, but hesitant. She froze, her heart racing: Did he know she was listening?
Maya pressed her hand against the wall, fingers brushing the cold surface. In a moment of bravery, she tapped back-three light knocks in reply.
And then it stopped. Left with nothing but a strange silence, an inky blackness that would never be resolved again, as if her world had been plunged into darkness. Maya's heart sank. Had she pushed it too far? Was he angry? But then another began, lively and playful, as if he was laughing at her through the music. She laughed too. A soft sound, genuinely funny, one she hadn't heard from herself in months.
And that night, as the music gave way to evening, it was Maya's turn to bring their conversation to the next level. She produced her drawing of the faceless figure at the piano and scribbled beneath it: Want to meet?
Folding the sketch into an envelope, she left it on his doormat, her heartbeat rushing as she returned to her apartment. It felt as though the weight of the note had hovered in her chest, and she spent the next few hours pacing her living room, berating herself for overstepping herself. What if?
At eleven she had lost all hopes and gone to bed, resigned. As soon as the light was switched off, there was a soft knock at her door.
Just then was Maya opening it, her heart leapt. And there he was.
Her enigmatic neighbor stood in the dim light of the hall, envelope in hand. Taller than she'd pictured, broad shoulders slightly slumped forward as if uncertain. Dark eyes snapped forth from his head and anchored onto hers with an unsaid expression.
"I'd like that," he said softly, the warmth of his voice mimicking the warmth of his music.
Maya's lips opened in a shock, but she soon recovered and spread a smoothened smile across her face. She sidestepped herself and silently gestured for him to come inside.
The separating wall had vanished for the first time.