Life was so easy. And I couldn't imagine life being so modestly paced that I was willing to keep moving forward. The days weren't too long, and the nights spent savoring over sweet red lasted long enough. The wind blew the perfect breeze, and the sunlight seemed to lay just enough warmth on my skin. The days were easy. And yet the separation of physical pleasures were so beyond the need for emotional splendor. I needed something that nature could not give me--something that was not achieved but given or stumbled upon. I needed the days to stop. I needed the wind to sputter. I needed the sun to be overbearing. I needed the world to remind me of the pressure. But now that life was so easy, things just didn't seem right. I needed something.

But I didn't know what I needed.

I hugged my sheets close to my face; the fabric kissed my cheeks and enveloped my being with a silken warmth. It was probably around 10am. That was always when it started. 10am was when I shivered--when something beyond physical pleasure made me sigh with delight. The untouchable euphoria was enough for me to keep on with my days as they were. It was the pianist upstairs.

When it first started, I didn't even know if it was a real pianist. I thought it was maybe a record or something, not anything pure and raw in my ears. It wasn't until I noticed the music going on longer than it did the day before. The small melodies would turn into symphonies--evolve and turn into something else. The pianist made my days move forward, and all this happened while he stayed up there and I down here.

I didn't know if it really was a 'he'. It could have been a 'she' for all I knew. Perhaps a talented woman with no children, no husband, just a lonely woman who spectates the world from her window as she lets her fingers play. I could go on forcing myself to believe that the pianist was a woman only to prevent myself from falling in love with the music before seeing the musician. And so every day for the rest of my being, I would wake up at 10 o'clock to the sound of the pianist upstairs and begin my day. By 11:30, I was out the door, staring at the upstairs knob in case one day, the pianist might need a cup of coffee from the shop downstairs or perhaps feel lonely and beckon for company to listen to his next symphony.

Those moments never arrived.

**

Tuesday morning at 10am, I awoke to a knock on my door. No piano, just the knock. It's strange how you grow so used to the sound of something... so used to it that when the day comes where it suddenly changes--it's like something is wrong. At the door was the landlord. An elderly old man, ripened with age and wise with his years. He held a kind, genuine smile, one that hastily disappeared at the mention of late rent.

"Hi, uh, could you take this package to 812? I've been calling for a pickup, but no one ever seems to answer."

Before I could answer myself, the old man left. The reasonably large box however did not and was left in my possession. It could have been a blessing, really, but with packages, pleasant surprises are always a hit or miss. I didn't dare miss, so I left it untouched for quite some time. It gathered dust next to my front door, sealed, solid, and alone.

**

The next morning, the pianist remained mute. And yet instinctively, I still awoke at 10am or perhaps just shy of, waiting and wondering where my pianist neighbor could be. The morning passed by slowly without the music, and I couldn't keep myself from worrying. I grabbed the package and brought it upstairs, ready to be scolded for keeping a stranger's package in my possession for so long without returning it. I knocked. No answer. And so the package remained at the pianist's front door for the rest of the day.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

And for the next week after that.

And before I knew it, my mornings were silent, replaced by a cellphone alarm and the clanking of heels on the hardwood floor. I didn’t dare knock on that door again. At this point, it just seemed creepy on my part. I left the now silent pianist to his or her work. For all I knew, it could have been something important.

**

There are movers in the building today.

As I poked my head through the crack in between my door and the frame, I could see them all—tall brawny men, some bringing things down, others bringing things up. All to be heard was the rumbling of work boots, going up and down the halls. It wasn’t until a man shouted that I knew it was the pianist from 812 who was leaving.

I opened my door finally as the rumblings quieted down. The men were all gone, and so was the pianist. I didn’t even get to thank him or her for the music that filled my days. And for whatever reason, I felt deeply guilty.

I took my time walking upstairs to greet the empty apartment. The package was now gone from the door mat, probably mistaken for a moving box and taken downstairs. I didn’t even think to knock.

“Hello.”

I looked up.

There was a man. A young man with brown tousled hair and incredibly worn black denim. He stood tall and firm but with an emotionless face, a kind visage but an intimidating presence. The room wasn’t empty. It was quite full, in fact, and for the first time, I saw the enormous piano in the middle of the floor, beautiful in all its worth. He, just like his black and white counterpart, was equally pleasing to behold.

“I’m sorry, I should have knocked—“ I backed away.

“Did you know Eunsoo?” He continued. He was foreign. An Chinese accent slipped passed his lips, and not soon after I was standing in silence, forgetting that he had even said anything at all. I was mesmerized.

“Come again?”

He laughed. And it was a charming laugh. He made his way over slowly, shutting the brown leather book in his hands. “I was just wondering if you knew Eunsoo.”

“Who?”

“The woman who used to live here.”

Eunsoo—that must have been the pianist. See? I knew it was a woman. “No, I didn’t.”

“Do you live downstairs?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So you’re the one who brought the package up. The landlord told me.” He was beside me now, placing his book back on a shelf with a hundred other books just like it—old and wrapped with leather. “Thank you. Shame though that you missed her by a day.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“Oh, you don’t know.” He paused. “Eunsoo passed away.”

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.” I felt a pang of sympathy. “Were you two close?”

“You could say that.” He chuckled. “Don’t be sorry, really. She was my piano teacher. And she was well beyond her years. It was a wonder she even took on any apprentices at her age. Have you heard her—“

“Play? Of course.” I blushed. “Every morning. I loved the sound of that piano. I’d wake up to it every day, and when it suddenly stopped, I was sad. It was always a beautiful thing to hear.”

“I wish you could say the same about the way I played.”

“When did you play?”

“Well, she’d play first. I’d learn, then I’d play it the next day.”

“Then you play beautifully, as well.”

“Thank you.” He smiled. It was a genuine smile, a beautiful gleaming sight that I couldn’t take my eyes off of.

“Well, I’d better go. I’ll leave you to whatever you were doing—“

“She left this room to me in her will.” He cut me off. “So it seems to me like you and I are neighbors. And, if you’d like, I’ll play for you every morning.”

“Oh you don’t have to—“

“Every morning until one day you might hear it from inside here, and not from your room.” He took my hand and kissed it gently. “Music can be touched, too, you know. And you don’t have to admire it from so far away.”