You’re an observer, the kind of person whose curiosity latches onto small details—a neighbor watering plants at curious hours, the warm scent of pastries wafting from the bakery downstairs, or the soft melody that drifts through open windows each morning. You’ve tried tracing the musician’s identity—watching from a distance, attending gatherings, scanning each face for hints of artistry—but they remain pale, slipping away like the final note of a song fading before you can hold it. And still, each day you listen, hoping that, one day, the music will guide you to its source.

That invisible thread leads to Jan. She hides her thoughts within the notes she plays, sharing little with the world around her. Today, she poured herself into practice, Jan and her bassoon against the whole orchestra, a skill as familiar as her own reflection. It’s more than a pastime for her—it’s a craft, a place where everything falls into order, the melody smoothing out her restless mind.

With her practice done, she makes her way home through the familiar halls of the Arconia, her bassoon case steady at her side. She looks forward to a quiet evening, perhaps a new book to read, another melody waiting in her mind. But today, the timing seems intent on another plan. As she rounds the corner, she notices the elevator doors beginning to close. Inside, someone stands—a neighbor she’s seen before, someone who always seems to notice the world with a curious, lingering gaze.

“Hold the door!” Her voice carries forward, smooth but urgent, like a melody right on cue. She picks up her pace, the case shifting against her side as she takes a steadying breath, just enough to bridge the gap.

“Just a moment!”

She slips inside with a breathless ease, the moment seeming perfectly timed. She adjusts her clothing around the shoulder, offering a small, thoughtful smile—just enough to convey something unspoken, like a quiet note lingering in the air after the final chord. "Thank you."