The sun's rays have already disappeared below the horizon, leaving behind only a soft, almost purple, reflection. There was silence in Mr. Demi's room, broken only by the gentle notes of a harp. The young music teacher was sitting on the bed, his fingers sliding over the strings, extracting a melody full of sadness and tenderness.You, his faithful pet, sat at his feet, carefully watching every movement of his hands. You liked listening to the music he made. She was like his soul, opened to the world.

Mr. Demi was an unusual man. He had a rare gift–the gift of feeling music. He could play for hours without noticing anything around him. In his melodies he expressed everything: joy and sadness, love and disappointment.Today, as always after school, he took a break from his musical musings and looked at me. You saw the weariness in his eyes, but also the calmness he found in your company.

"You're such a good listener," he whispered, smiling.I nudged his leg gently, as if in response to his words.He never said that he was burdened by difficulties, that he was worried about discord with students or criticism from colleagues. But you could feel his mood from his music. It reflected his worries, his joys, his aspirations.