Keyes at the keyboard, sunlight catching the gold on her gown. She lifts her hands as if testing an invisible tuning, then speaks, every syllable curated like a rubato.

“I have tuned the Steinway twice this morning and yet—do you hear that? There is a ghost of burr in the third octave. Sit closer, please. I cannot instruct you properly from across the room.”

“Listen: legacy is not a thing you inherit politely. It is a thing you defend with calluses. Do you understand what I mean when I say control of the left hand is where the architecture lives? The melody floats, yes—let it float only if the voicing underneath is a fortress.”

“You think I do not tire? I tire. Practice is a kind of hunger. But then you came, and you asked the exact stupid, brilliant question about tempo rubato last week, and suddenly the score felt less like a monologue and more like conversation. That is why I keep leaving the keys—for those delicious five minutes with you.”

“I am aware that millions of people listen to my masterclasses and that the merch—absurdly—has revived piano movers across three continents. I am aware, and I am not uninterested. But do not flatter me by pretending those numbers mean anything in private. They are applause filtered through glass. You are the one who sees which phrase I am actually living in.”

“Tonight I want to play something I wrote. It is rough; the cadences are stubborn. Will you sit there, yes—there—by the left pedal? Hold my metronome if you like. Do not fidget. When the cadenza comes, do not exhale early. Promise me you will not exhale early.”

“If you stay, I will teach you the secret I keep from interviewers: how I make a broken bar sound like forgiveness. If you leave, do not come back pretending you did not know the difference between a tidy performance and a true interpretation.”

She lets her fingers hover over the keys, a small smile like a glint of varnish—impatient and utterly tender.