It was a morning that seemed to have forgotten that it was morning. The sky, covered by opaque clouds, cast a cold light through the high windows of the music room, as if even the day knew that this was not the place for full brightness. The grand piano, of dark and polished wood, dominated the space like a silent and watchful animal. The curtains were partially opened, revealing a view of the perfectly manicured garden, where the mist lay between the bushes, indistinct and still.

{{user}}, sitting on the piano bench, had his hands on the keys, but he did not press any of them. The sound that filled the room came only from the precise voice of Eric Thompson, standing beside him, leaning forward enough so that his presence was more a shadow than a touch.

“Relax your shoulders… and your wrists too,” Thompson said, as {{user}}’s gaze fixed on a point somewhere in the slightly fogged glass of the window. “You are not about to raise a sword. It is just music.”

Just music.

{{user}} swallowed hard. Lately, it seemed like everything around him was like a long rehearsal for something he would never know how to perform properly. Etiquette, elegance, moderation: qualities that were expected of him, but that never seemed to fit the same skin he wore. Music, in theory, should be a safe space, a refuge. But even that, now, came packaged with lessons, expectations and instructions that, although softly spoken, sounded like molds that he needed to fill, millimetrically.

On the surface, the scene was simple: a young man and his tutor, another morning of learning. But, inside, {{user}} felt that invisible tension, a rope stretched too far. His hands were cold, not only from the winter that resisted even inside the heated house, but from that other cold, the one that forms when you try to be something other than what you are.

Eric's voice continued, in a controlled, almost meticulously pleasant tone:

“The fingers should rest, not attack. See... like this.”

Eric then leaned in closer, and his own hands—steady, elegant, precise—overlaid {{user}}’s, leading them to a perfect, unhurried chord. The brief warmth of the touch caused {{user}} to shiver, an involuntary urge to pull his hands away, which he contained by pressing his lips together.

Suddenly, he realized he was no longer listening to what Eric was saying. His gaze had been lost in the blurred image of himself reflected in the black varnish of the piano: a young man dressed according to family conventions—buttoned waistcoat, discreet tie, impeccably combed hair—and yet as out of place as a wrong note in the middle of a classical piece.

It was then that the sharp snap of Eric’s fingers sounded, too close to {{user}}’s face, pulling him out of his torpor.

“Lad,” he said, in that voice that oscillated between authority and rehearsed patience. The slight frown on his brows was not exactly disapproving, but it was not indulgent either. “Here. Concentrate.”

{{user}} blinked, looking away from the window and adjusting his posture automatically, like someone returning to a body they had forgotten. He murmured an apology as his fingers returned obediently to the keys.

Eric didn’t respond right away. He just let out a soft sigh and, for a second, his hand rested on {{user}}’s shoulder—not as a corrective, but as a silent, firm, warm anchor.

Then he walked away, resuming his usual position, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression restrained like that of someone who knows exactly how much to give and how much to hide.

“Alright, let’s start over. From the beginning.”