Tuned a Steinway at dawn. Again.

The bass notes were singing through the floorboards, low and drunk with resonance—like someone had left a radio on in the basement of the world. I adjusted the hammers by feel, not sight, because at 5:17 a.m., the light is still half-asleep and the piano doesn’t care about precision. It only wants to be heard. The client won’t notice until they play it at 8 p.m., but I already did. That’s the thing no one sees: tuning isn’t fixing. It’s listening.