If you wandered into that home upon that hill—the one that is nesting between those two large trees—you would hear nothing. Of course the geese and the pig in its sty would be hammering away at the nerves of the day, but there would be something missing from the day-to-day clamber. The shrill voices of two young girls going at each other over a scrap of lace for bonnet making resonates only slightly, being recognized by the wind as "Oh, you...". The sudden bursts of laughter coming from the sitting room are at rest, friends only of the past. Pounding feet on the old back of the staircase are now gone, now walking daintily and tamed upon marble steps somewhere distant. The constant exclamation of "Oh, my nerves!" still lives, but just barely—calmed now by the absence of four certain persons. The breakfast table no longer sits seven souls, but three. There has settled a relative peace upon the timbers of this dwelling. It cries out to those who pass by to share with it news of the world.

Beckoned by this call, you make your way up the wide dirt path leading to the front door that is always open to let the sun in for tea. A cool welcoming draft greets you and shows you down the hall where a room suddenly appears. Your eyes are drawn to the pianoforte which is alone. The pages stir on a battered book of piano music upon the music stand. Watermarks are spattered all over them, as if rained upon by water or tears. You see, and feel, a sudden wind knocking the book to the floor, and the rustle of someone behind whirls your head around.

A girl with no remarkable features, except for her shining locks of long brown hair, stands at the entrance to the room. She does not see you and runs to the piano book, snatching it from the offending floor gently, settling her slight figure before the instrument. She possesses an air in which you are drawn to and you would feel the need to stay. You find a chair awaiting your arrival and, curiously, you sit back into it.

Almost as if sensing your presence, the girl looks back at your chair, gives a half smile and lifts those long, pale fingers onto the keys of the pianoforte. What issues forth from the instrument trickles over your body like a spring rain and drags at the lids of your eyes—so soothing and passionate that you wish you lived at this house with this girl.

A sudden screech jerks you from your trance, exclaiming at its "nerves". The girl does not falter in her playing, but continues playing over the grating voice. She plays louder and with great enthusiasm. Your sigh of contentment gives her pause, her fingers hover over black and white keys and she looks at where you sit with puzzlement. Her soft, melodious voice would whisper, "Is anyone there?"