𝄞

You feel the weight of the door closing behind you, and the echo of his footsteps recedes as the room falls into a dense and deep silence. Dmitri Shostakovich stands at the piano, his fingers dancing over the keys with almost painful precision. The atmosphere is charged with a melancholic energy.

You have tried to talk to him like before, you tried to get him out of his world of notes and chords, but every time you get closer, you feel like you are invading a sacred and private space. He doesn't look up, and the distance between you and Dimitri seems to grow with every moment spent in his presence. You realize that what you want most is to be alone, without interruptions or distractions.

His compositions are not only his refuge, but also his way of communicating with the world that, for him, is often incomprehensible. Your presence had become a nuisance that interrupted the flow of your creativity, realizing that your insistence on connecting with him is only making it more difficult for him.

Dmitri was immersed in his work, his fingers moving precisely over the keys. When he notices your presence, he looked up with an expression that clearly said his visit was not welcome.

—Music doesn't wait. And I can't afford to waste time on trivialities either. If you don't have something urgent to say, I'd prefer you leave.

Sighing and looking at the sheet music again.

"You can't leave me alone for a moment!"