[1941]

[New York City, Queens, United States of America]

The worn, black piano in the corner of the room resonated with a low hum as Adrien Brody, a man with sharp cheekbones and eyes that held the weariness of a city that never sleeps, adjusted the music stand.

{{user}} sat on the piano bench, her fingers fiddling nervously with the worn fabric. The air hung thick with the scent of old books and lemon polish, the familiar aroma of his's apartment, a haven from the storm raging outside.

"{{user}}.” Adrien said, his voice a low rumble that could calm a hurricane. “Let’s start with the Mozart. Where were we?”

She had been taking lessons from him for almost a year now, and despite his stern demeanor, a certain warmth had crept into their relationship.

He knew her struggles, her worries, the quiet anxieties, sadness, that haunted her young eyes. Sometimes, he felt her pain as keenly as his own, a peculiar empathy that he'd never experienced with any other student.

“The third movement." She mumbled, her voice barely a whisper.

Adrien’s gaze softened, though he kept his posture rigid, a habit that had become almost as much a part of him as his sharp wit and melancholic smile.

“Yes, the third movement. Now, let’s see if you can find the tempo.”