The Piano That Only Plays Strangers

How it begins

The middle C sounded like someone climbing stairs with a heavy bag.

Tomas lifted the lid.

The piano was an ordinary upright, badly maintained but not beyond saving. He had tuned worse instruments in rooms with less light.

He struck the key again.

Three slow steps. A pause. The small scrape of a bag set down to rest.

Ada Bell stood beside the window.

“Is it expensive?”

“Unusual.”

“That's generally expensive.”

He tried the next note.

A different rhythm emerged: water running into a bucket, a spoon tapping twice against a mug.

Ada frowned.

“That sounds like Mrs Sen.”

“Who is Mrs Sen?”

“She cleaned here for years.”

Tomas took his hands off the keys.

The apartment contained framed photographs, good furniture, and no visible sign that anyone besides Ada had contributed to its order. On the piano sat a silver vase polished so thoroughly it reflected the window.

“When did she leave?”

“I don't remember exactly.”

He played a short scale.

Footsteps, a kettle, the squeak of a trolley wheel. Then a melody formed from all three, simple enough that he could almost follow it.

Ada sat down.

“I've never heard it do that.”

“Have you played recently?”

“Not for a long time.”

The piano was being sold to a dealer. Tomas had been asked to make it presentable, not discover what it had been listening to.

He opened his tool case.

At the first adjustment, the melody weakened.

From the lower keys came another rhythm, quieter than the others. A hand brushing dust from a windowsill. A person humming while waiting for a lift.

Tomas knew the hum.

Someone in the building next to his made that sound every morning. He had heard it for six years without learning a name.

He put the tuning lever down.

Ada looked at him.

“What is it?”

“For once,” he said, “I think we should find out before we improve it.”