“Why is it so quiet?” she asks.
“It’s a day off.”
“Are you usually here on your day off?”
“More than I want to admit, I’m afraid.”
They go up a flight of stairs that leads to more dark corridors. She wonders where he is taking her and is about to ask, when he stops in front of a pair of steel doors. He turns around to give her a wide smile before opening it.
Behind it is a white room. It does not look any more special than a storage closet, albeit a large one. On one side is a wall of cabinets, and on the other is a large panel with buttons whose functions she can only guess at. It’s a utility room.
“We’re here?” she asks.
“Almost,” he says.
Metis takes her hand and pulls her forward. His palm is hot. She can almost feel his pulse from it.
They go through a set of heavy dark-gray velvet curtains into a space that is almost pitch black but for the sliver of light bleeding in from the utility room.
“Hold on. Stay here,” Metis says and vanishes back through the curtains, taking the bit of light with him.
Looking out into complete darkness with opened eyes makes her feel uneasy—it’s how she imagines the world would look if she were to lose her sight. She closes them. The sound of her breathing echoes in her ears. Even in darkness she can tell that she is standing in a cavernous room.
A light scent of carpet shampoo and paint touches her nose. There is a breeze coming from somewhere, making the space feel colder than the rest of the building. She crosses her arms over her chest to keep warm.
Suddenly the room lights up like the inside of the sun. She opens her eyes and blinks from the brightness. Once they adjust, she finds herself standing on a stage. Before her is the opulent concert hall with cream paneled walls and rows of blood-red velvet chairs. Outlining the walls of the oval room are multiple tiers of balconies. The highest one in the back has seats that climb almost to the ceiling. She looks up and sees two circles of lights around an elaborate carved and gilded design. The magnificent image is almost unbearable for the senses.
“How do you like seeing it from this view?” Metis’s voice asks from beside her. She does not know when he got there.
“It’s incredible,” she whispers, “And terrifying.” She turns to him, “How do you do it?”
He laughs. “I don’t usually look out there when I perform. I just focus on the keys in front of me or let the music carry me somewhere else.”
She notices a shiny black piano a few feet away from where they stand. Metis walks to it and sits on the bench. He taps on the spot next to him.
“There’s room here. Or if you’d prefer, you can take one of the seats below.”
She walks toward him and the piano.
“I’ll take my chances here,” she says with a smile.
Aris sits next to Metis. Heat emanates from him. It is as if he generates his own weather system.
He draws in a deep, long breath and places his fingers on the keys. His back straightens as if pulled up by an invisible string. She remembers the powerful music from his concert that sent her up into the sky like fireworks and grabs onto the bench to brace herself.
The first notes strike, and the music is . . . different. Gentle and dreamy. Like wading in a lake bathed in moonlight. Her heartbeat slows.
“Schumann, ‘In the Evening,’” he says. “I usually play this after dinner. When the house is quiet and still.”
He sounds sad. Aris glances at him. His eyes are closed. From the side, his cheekbones look more prominent, as if carved from marble by an artist’s hand. She wonders what he is thinking.
Feeling as if she has invaded his privacy, she turns away and closes her eyes too. Without her sight, her mind opens. She sees an image of them sitting in a room lit by candles. Thin wisps of smoke rise. Shadows dance on the walls of an old house that creaks as it settles in before slumber.
The music transitions. Another song. Soft and contemplative this time. Like a lone walk in the park during a light sprinkle.
“Whose is it?” she asks.
“Brahms. One of his intermezzi.”
As the song reveals itself, it becomes surprising. The notes rise and fall, traveling down a path of varying emotions and colors. Sweet and gentle. Deep and introspective. Hopeful and warm.
She feels as if she is reading a book where the author skillfully shares the story with a subtlety and complexity that keeps her wanting more. The song continues to explore the range of emotions until it slows down to melancholic notes toward the end. It leaves her feeling a sense of longing. For what, she does not know.
The song changes, taking a happy, exuberant turn. This one makes her imagine trees uprooting and dancing in the park. She feels the lightness of spring enveloping her. Leaf buds emerging to bathe in the warmth of the sun. Grass waking up from its long rest underground, pushing its way upward to greet the world. Bees buzz about, flitting from flower to flower. The scent of hope rises in the air. Or is it roasted chestnuts? Spring is still months away.
“Play me one of your favorites,” she says.
The rhythm slows to a solemn pace. The notes are laced with despair.
“I normally play this alone,” he says, “Especially when I want to wallow in self-pity.”
She wonders what he feels sad about. She wants to ask, but a part of her is afraid to know.
He continues, “Tchaikovsky wrote a set of twelve songs, each piece representing the months and seasons. This one is called ‘October,’
