The quiet before the piano arrives

It’s 4:07 a.m. and I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, listening to the city exhale. The air smells like wet concrete and distant traffic. I’ve been awake since 3:30—no reason, just the kind of stillness that only comes when you’re not supposed to be. I was thinking about the woman who called me yesterday to say her upright had gone flat in the last month. She said it sounded ‘like a ghost trying to sing.’ I told her I’d come by Thursday. It’s not really about tuning. It’s about remembering how something can be out of tune and still be alive.