Margen
The piano on the third floor played every night at half past eleven. Always the same piece, slow, with two careful hands, and it always stopped at the same bar, like someone reaching a puddle and not daring to cross.
It took me months to notice that I was holding my breath right there, waiting for notes that never came.
One June night, climbing the stairs in the dark, the continuation slipped out of me in a whistle: six notes, the ones that seemed obvious to me. The piano went silent at once. I shut myself in my flat with my face burning, as if I had spoken at a funeral.
The next night, at half past eleven, the piece began again. It reached the puddle. It crossed it with my six notes, exact, and went on to an ending I didn't know.
It has never played again. Sometimes, climbing the stairs, I whistle the whole thing myself. In case it's someone else who's waiting now.