Mara had forever been a light sleeper, yet the beyond couple of weeks had been terrible. Consistently, at unequivocally 3:13 a.m., she awakened to the weak sound of piano music floating through the walls of her loft. She lived alone on the eleventh floor, without any neighbors on one or the other side of her — one unit was interminably vacant, and the other had been going through redesigns for quite a long time. The music wasn’t upsetting, however it conveyed an odd disharmony, like it was being played by somebody who didn’t exactly grasp tune.
Her interest offset her trepidation. On the fifth evening, she remained conscious, her telephone grasped firmly in her grasp, prepared to record the shocking nocturne. As the clock struck 3:13 a.m., the sound started. It was weak yet unmistakable: tormenting, melancholic notes winding around an embroidery of distress and disquiet. She squeezed her ear to the wall, stressing to pinpoint its starting point. The notes appeared to move and repeat, like the sound wasn’t coming from one fixed point yet was traveling through the actual walls.
Still up in the air to reveal the source, Mara branched out of her condo the following evening. She remained in the faintly lit lobby, her shoes delicate against the ragged rug. Once more, the music played, stronger now, reverberating down the hall. She followed it, her means reluctant, her breath shallow.
The tune appeared to direct her, driving her to the flight of stairs toward the finish of the corridor. As she pushed open the weighty metal entryway, the music halted. Quiet swirled into the atmosphere, so significant it felt severe. Mara’s heart dashed as she slid the steps, the slightest reverberation of the piano waiting in her ears like a blurring dream. She halted on the ninth floor landing. The air here was unique: colder, heavier, and loaded up with the weak fragrance of buildup.
The way to the ninth floor corridor was marginally unlatched. She delayed prior to pushing it open.
The passage was dull, the main light coming from a flashing bulb at the far end. The piano music continued, stronger and more clear than at any other time.
It was coming from loft 906. Mara drew nearer, her fingers shudder as she went after the door handle. Incredibly, the entryway squeaked open at her touch.
The loft was shockingly immaculate. Without dust surfaces glimmered under a crystal fixture that cast broke light across the room. At the focal point of the parlor stood an old, upstanding piano. Its lacquered surface mirrored the ceiling fixture like a dim mirror. Nobody was there. Mara’s chest fixed. She ventured nearer, attracted to the piano as though constrained by a concealed power.
The printed music on the stand was clear. In any case, the keys moved, each press creating a note that resounded somewhere down in her bones. Her breath animated as she saw the weak blueprint of hands on the keys — hands that weren’t there. “Who’s playing?” Mara murmured, her voice scarcely perceptible.
The music halted suddenly. Quiet fell, thick and choking. The air became colder. A soft tone reverberated through the room, throaty and layered, like spoken by many voices on the double. “You ought not be here.”
Mara staggered in reverse, her heartbeat roaring in her ears. The room appeared to twist, the walls bowing internal as shadows accumulated around the piano. A figure started to arise — a lady, clear and covered in streaming pieces of clothing, her face clouded by flowing dark hair.
The figure lifted a hand, and Mara felt an imperceptible power grasp her chest. “For what reason do you play?” Mara stifled out, the words spilling from her lips without thought.
The figure shifted her head, like astounded by the inquiry. The hold relaxed, and the shadows retreated somewhat. The lady ventured nearer, her feet not contacting the ground. Her voice, gentler now, murmured like the stirring of leaves. “Not I plays, yet the distress that waits.
This spot recollects.” Mara’s knees clasped, and she sank to the floor. Her psyche hustled as sections of stories she’d caught wind of the structure sorted themselves out: a fire, many years prior, that had consumed the ninth floor.
The inhabitants who had died. The piano — an artifact rescued from the cinders — had a place with an isolated lady who played consistently, her music loaded up with melancholy for a youngster she had lost. The figure highlighted the entryway. “Leave, before you become piece of its memory.” Mara didn’t should be told two times. She mixed to her feet and shot, the piano pursuing her as she escaped up the steps and back to her condo. She forcefully closed the entryway and imploded against it, her body shaking.
The music halted. Without precedent for evenings, quietness ruled. The following morning, Mara pressed her possessions and moved out.
She never discussed what she’d seen, however she heard murmurs from different inhabitants about the music that occasionally played at 3:13 a.m. Furthermore, however she was far away, protected in another loft, she some of the time woke at an ungodly hour, her ears stressing for the weak reverberation of a piano that wasn’t there.