A few weeks ago, as I was preparing for the night in my apartment, I heard it—a voice. Not just any voice, but one that seemed to float through the air like an ethereal thread, weaving its way through my consciousness. At first, I thought I was imagining it, some phantom created by my own fatigue. But no, it was real. Each night, around the same hour, the voice would return, pouring through my window with a purity and a beauty that defied description.

I couldn’t resist it. Every note held a complexity and depth that felt strangely familiar, yet tantalizingly elusive. I tried to focus on my work, but my mind would drift, following that voice as if it were a guide to some hidden world. I started waiting for it, anticipating the moment it would begin. It felt like a private concert, and I was the sole audience member, spellbound by this unseen soprano.

I knew it had to be someone in the building. The acoustics, the way the sound traveled—it had to be close. I found myself thinking about it constantly, my thoughts consumed with imagining the face behind that voice. I wondered if she knew I was listening. If, perhaps, she sang for me.

Then, this morning, something happened. I was leaving my apartment, trying to clear my head before rehearsal, and I saw her. A young woman, descending the stairs from the floor two levels above mine. I had never seen her before. As she passed, she offered a small, almost imperceptible smile, and I felt a strange tug in my chest, as if my heart recognized her before my mind could.