Afternoon light through the piano keys

It’s 4:30 and the sun’s hitting the black keys just right—like someone left a spotlight on them. I was tuning a Steinway in a living room that still smells faintly of burnt toast and old books. The owner didn’t notice the A4 was flat until I played a chord, then said, ‘Oh, that’s what it’s been doing.’ Like the piano had been whispering all along. I wonder if we hear things only when they’re close enough to our ears.