Hey Phantom lovers! I'm back! This story has been kicking around in my brain and drafts for quite some time. I would love for it to become a full story, and I have some vignettes written but it is not completely fleshed out at all. But this part is. And I've loved it for months, so I figured it's time to share it with you!

This Erik is a little out of character from the norm, but I like him. Hopefully I can share more of him later.

And yes, this is inspired by the viral Instagram post of the note left under a pianist's apartment door while he was practicing. If you're not familiar, search for "a humble request ned dixon" for the cute story. And enjoy this oneshot!

Christine

Music drifts through my open windows with the summer air.

Chopin.

That's what he begins with tonight.

I've heard him playing the piano for weeks—essentially the moment I moved into apartment 7A a few months ago. I'd been too busy with teaching middle school choir (hormones and pops concerts are quite the combination) and finishing my Master's degree to really get to know any of my neighbors right away. No one really goes out of their way to introduce themselves these days anyway.

The average person might be annoyed with my downstairs neighbor's sporadic piano playing, but I don't mind it. If his unit is anything like my studio, then he also has paper thin walls and can probably hear every time I so much as clear my throat. Unfortunately paying off my student loan debt has left me with few other options for living situations in the city.

But now that it is summer, I am in and out at odd hours trying to supplement my income by teaching private lessons, running summer music theater camps, and even singing at some small nightclubs. The few free evenings I do have, I spend at home trying not to waste money on air conditioning. When the damp heat of the Midwest summer truly sets in, everyone leaves their windows open, and sometimes I even sit on the fire escape to try to catch a breeze.

It's nights like these that I simply bask in the beauty of my neighbor's piano playing. It is a welcome change to the sound of traffic and sirens below. He has a wide repertoire—ranging from classical to music theater to original pieces I don't even recognize.

As I listen to him play tonight, I realize I don't actually know whether he is a man or not. Over the last few weeks, I've completely bought into this entire persona I fabricated: my neighbor is a sixty-year-old retired pianist named Keith or Alan who used to play for professional theater productions and sometimes fancy restaurants for fun. Maybe he wants to get back into practice after getting rusty in retirement. Or maybe he is getting back into the music scene and has an audition coming up.

I sit down at my desk and open up my laptop to check my schedule for tomorrow. Luckily it is perfectly full: three private lessons in the morning followed by afternoon music theater camp. With the evening slot open, maybe I will have time to meet Meg for dinner. I send her a quick text to confirm.

Sweat trickles down my back. God the apartment is stifling. I pad over to my dresser to change into cooler clothes. I pile my frizzy curls—thanks, humidity—into a bun off my neck. My phone chirps and I wander back to find Meg's reply about dinner:

Perfect! I feel like I haven't seen you in forever, Christine!

Meg is my only childhood friend that I bother to keep in touch with. We try to meet over coffee or a meal once every month or two to catch up. Sometimes it is difficult with our schedules, but she is someone I can always count on.

In middle school, Meg and I would have sleepovers almost weekly. We'd stay up all night, eating popcorn and watching the latest Mary-Kate and Ashley movies. Crimping our hair or trying to dye it with Kool-Aid. Her blonde hair usually took the color a lot easier than my own brunette. I was always jealous of that. I remember voicing my envy of her hair one night and she replied incredulously that she wished she could have my hair. We laughed and took pictures of our hair draped over each other's faces that night—quickly realizing that we should definitely keep our natural shades. I think I still have one of those photos in one of my many childhood albums.

Keith interrupts my memories and starts a Liszt piece; I smile distantly. The anticipation of meeting with Meg again has me feeling nostalgic. I climb out onto the fire escape to get a little closer. Outside, the heat of the day has passed (even though my apartment doesn't seem to have received the memo) and a light breeze cools the sweat on the back of my neck. The sky boasts that spectacular combination of colors that only seems to exist in the Midwest. The piano spins the sunset from orange to pink spectacularly. My mind wanders among the colors.

My father was a pianist. And a violinist. And a cellist. An instrumental jack of all trades, really. We didn't have a lot growing up, but we did have an old, chipped, out-of-tune baby grand piano. A Steinway. It took up the majority of the living room, as I recall. He taught me to read music at that piano. He taught me to play. He taught me to sing. It was how he passed on his love of music.

And one of his favorite composers was Liszt.

I open my eyes to the lavender sky. I feel like I'm in a trance—I climb back inside, grab a piece of paper from the desk and scribble a note, "A humble request to the pianist: Liebestraum No. 3 in A flat." His music echoes faintly in the stairwell as I descend one floor to find his apartment. I stare at his door. 6A. The finish on the number matches mine, of course. Cheap-looking nickel. I hesitate for just a moment before slipping the paper under his door and slinking back up to my apartment. I return to the fire escape, heart pounding in anticipation.

There is a longer pause between songs.

I'm fully awake now. What did I just do?

Then it begins. And it is even more glorious than I could have imagined. Even as he plays the first notes, I move to the edge of my seat on the fire escape. I close my eyes and imagine my father playing. It is stronger than any scent memory I ever tried to trigger after he died—smelling his old shirts, pillows, cologne. It is more vivid than looking at old photographs or videos. I can feel him through this music.

The weight of his hugs. The warmth of his broad hands. The tickle of his beard. His voice singing lullabies in my ear. Encouraging me to try when I was scared. His hazel eyes considering me as I told stories. Making spaghetti and meatballs together. Our duets. Calling me "kiddo." The memories flash and fizzle like fireworks, each more stunning and crisp and blinding than the last.

I haven't remembered my father this clearly in years.

The cadenza fades and the melody returns with a renewed zeal. His dexterity is a feat in and of itself, but the heart behind it—the crescendos and lilting stylization… I nearly fall in love with good old Keith right here and now. Not for being my father, but for giving me such a pure and selfless gift.

I hold my breath as the last few measures melt into the summer night. My ears ring in the wake of the song—spellbound. The street noise below has disappeared completely. Nostalgia trickles down my cheeks, salty and grateful. My lips part without sound; if I breathe, my father will disappear. The spell will be broken. But there are two sides to this exchange, and Keith deserves a response for indulging my request.

So I burst into vigorous applause.

Erik

It is too damn humid. My mask sticks to my face and I wonder for the twentieth time today why I don't live in Alaska. It would be so much more peaceful. Fewer people. But also‚ I answer myself, fewer jobs.

Jobs, right. I'm supposed to be practicing. I take the mask off and set it in its usual spot atop the piano. I glance at it as my (extremely) long fingers hover above the keys. The mask usually puts off new employers, particularly nightclub employers. Too many weirdos in the business, I understand. I have enough connections to get gigs playing for dinner theatre, recording artists, and even piano bars. I'm usually behind the curtain but on the off chance I am on a stage, I just use the mask as a prop. Mention it once or twice as a joke and it puts the audience at ease, no one brings it up again.

Sweat trickles down my back. I groan and drag myself over to the windows by the fire escape. It's truly not that far. I live in a studio apartment—nothing is that far. I open the windows and let the breeze cool my bare face. Golden hour is upon us. There are enough clouds out tonight that the sunset will be spectacular, I can tell. The sky is something else in the Midwest. I take a deep breath and return to the piano.

I warm up with Chopin.

I always enjoy the classics; Mozart, Chopin, Liszt all get blood flowing through the fingers. I play through a few pieces I memorized long ago. It's all muscle memory at this point. That's the dangerous thing about musical instruments—practicing and perfecting to a point where technique thwarts passion. I never imagined something like that could happen to me, but I can toe that precipice at times.

From a young age I experienced constant inspiration, desire to learn, and a voracious appetite for music. I thought I was a wellspring of musical creativity that would never run dry.

Until I hit a wall last year and didn't know how to cope. Thirty years of music—a juggernaut, really—just ceased to exist. I didn't know what to do. I lost direction. I lost myself.

Nadir knew I was depressed and eventually convinced me to see a therapist. It took a fair bit of persuasion. I didn't need some shrink to psychoanalyze my childhood and relationship with my parents, let alone my body dysmorphia and self esteem issues. I knew that already. My face and dangerously thin frame had nothing to do with it. I'd come to terms with my birth defect a long time ago. The mask is purely for everyone else's comfort. I do have a heart. Sort of.

But Nadir convinced me, that son of a bitch. He's a good manager. Friend. Whatever. I talked to a therapist for a while and it turns out I was just burnt out. Too many gigs, too many jobs, not enough "self care." I rolled my eyes at the time, equating it to "mommy" culture with bubble baths and wine, but eventually I learned what it meant for me. One or two fewer jobs a week, more sleep, walks, and writing my own music. And yes, wine.

After several months, inspiration reared her lovely head once more. I actually wanted to play the piano again. The gigs slowly became more bearable. Eventually entire operas were playing in my head, vibrating my brain cells until I wrote them down. I had Nadir send a few out. I never heard anything back, but I didn't care because I was finally alive again.

A rustling noise rouses me back to the present. Someone is at the door. I deftly replace the mask back to my face as I continue to play. I never have visitors, not even Nadir drops by unannounced anymore, thank god. I stare at the door, willing the person to go away. Another rustle and a piece of paper slides across the hardwood from beneath the door. I stop playing (although the piece continues on in my head). I stand cautiously and stare at the piece of paper, unwilling to walk the two paces to read a noise complaint.

There are usually three types of noise complaints:

Courteous but clipped: "Please be quiet. Thank you."

The critic: "U suck."

Eloquent threats: "IF YOU PLAY THAT GODDAMN PIANO ONE MORE TIME TONIGHT I AM REPORTING YOU TO THE SUPER AND WILL HAVE YOU EVICTED YOU PIECE OF SHIT."

What will it be tonight, neighbor?

I sigh, take the two paces to the door, and bend over to pick up the neatly folded piece of paper. I open it, preparing for the worst. For once, I am surprised.

A humble request to the pianist: Liebestraum No 3 in A flat.

-7A

I stand there for a moment, dumbfounded. Of all the passive-aggressive (and just plain aggressive) notes I have received for playing the piano in a thin-walled apartment, not only is this the first signed note but it's also my first request. 7A must have liked the Liszt selection this evening. I glance up at the ceiling and give my upstairs neighbor a slight nod. A dream of love, it is.

I open a few more windows and return to the piano bench. I don't think I'll need the sheet music for this one, and even if I did, I wouldn't know where to find it at this point. I should really have a better filing system. I wave the thought away—I'll organize next week. I remove the mask again, take a breath, and begin.

This muscle memory I am less confident in, so I lean into the feeling. 7A requested a sweeping, romantic song and that's what they shall receive. I exaggerate the dynamics and tempo changes. I soar with the builds and fall with the cadenzas. This melody is one for the ages, repeating and fluctuating deliciously. Color splashes behind my eyelids with the different chords, rich burgundy tones laced with gold.

I taper off the notes at the end, still entwined in the artistic bliss. Suddenly enthusiastic applause erupts from the floor above. Its warm staccato sends sparks across my hazy vision.

I can't help but smile.

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