Shizuo ignores the burning in his lungs, the biting wind at his skin, the pain wracking his legs, as he dashes for the building, the pianist's hideaway, hurrying to get there at the time he usually comes home from work. He doesn't know exactly what he's thinking; tonight will probably end just like every other — disappointment. But he hopes, prays, that what Celty predicted would come true. There had been no signs of the piano being moved, or of the building being closed down. Sooner or later, whatever the case, eventually he will be there.
By the time he arrives under the window, Shizuo is entirely out of breath and leans his body against the wall. Legs aching, throat dry, heart pounding against his chest like it might break the ribs, he watches a bead of sweat drop from his forehead to the ground. The cold evening air finally catches up to him, and his body stiffens. Still, he manages to look up at the window, straining to hear.
...
Nothing.
A sharp exhale of breath that rings in his ears. Hands on his knees, his chest heaves as it struggles for air. He looks up again; the room inside appears dim, without the faint lamplight that usually shines on the piano. Nothing.
After a few more minutes of steady breathing, Shizuo regains the strength to walk again. Thinking again, he can't believe he just ran across most of the city. He laughs to himself, wondering what the pianist would thought if he knew what he'd—
A few hesitant notes play from above, and Shizuo freezes.
The tune is agonizingly slow, note by tentative note. He can hear the uncertainty, the feeling of unworthiness and stress, bearing down on the pianist's shoulders and in turn producing such forlorn music that Shizuo can't help but be moved to tears again. This is what he's been yearning for, what he dreams of every night, what he hears in his head when he's all to himself. His heart hurts after having been pulled at and ripped out so many times that Shizuo can't say if it will ever heal. The music pauses. Shizuo's breath hitches in his throat until the music picks up again. The harmony line is strong, but the melody line is light, fluttery, weak. Something is wrong. Yet the pianist still plays on, practically hellbent on finishing the song as the tempo and sound increase for just a moment until they pick up the refrain again. Each note seems to echo, hanging in the air like the image forming behind Shizuo's closed eyelids: a light airy figure walking across the water in a slow, fluid dance, the occasional pause of caution as if the dancer might fall into the pool at any second.
Shizuo sums up the courage. It's now or never. He's been waiting for this moment for days, weeks, counting each one until the pianist comes back. Now that the pianist has returned, Shizuo is insistent on making the most of this chance.
Who knows if this is the pianist's last night.
He opens the front door, terrified if he's to find it locked, but it opens easily. Luckily for him, the hinges don't creak, and he enters quietly. He comes in to a dark, empty lobby with an abandoned desk in one corner. Light filters in from a hallway ahead, and Shizuo continues to walk. He follows the music down the corridor and to a shadowy stairwell. Each step up only makes his heart beat faster, and he wills it to retreat so it doesn't drown out the song. Shizuo's fingers trail absently up the cold railing as he climbs up. He's met by a long hallway lit by a single lightbulb hanging from the center of the ceiling by a string and electrical wires strewn with the years' cobwebs. The music is louder now, louder than he's ever heard it, and he quickly finds the pianist's room.
The door is faded brown with a simple round doorknob. The plaque at his eye level reads 2L. It hangs slightly ajar, only an inch, but it's not enough to see the pianist. He's still playing, heartbrokenly lethargic and melancholy, unable to hold back the tears. Shizuo swallows his own, takes a deep thoughtful breath, and little by little opens the door.