Paris, 1958

Baffled. 

The postman delivers the daily news as I wave him goodbye. Riddance has never proved to be a distraction until today, the birds melodious chirps taunting my isolated self. 

Chopin. The neighbour plays Chopin at a hauntingly accurate pace. I lay my head against the 7ft tall door and listen to the distant vibrations of the piano being played. The rhythmic pauses storm my head and I ponder over paying the man a visit. 

Storm. A blizzard. The cold, marble tiles penetrate through my bare skin, a shooting star reverberating to my abdomen and beyond. I prepare two cups of hot chocolate, for Monseuir Linguinni and I. The master next door begins his daily ritual and I think twice before interrupting him. 

Proves useful. The man looks scared. Late 40's, brilliant wife fallen victim to cancer, a forlorn and distant gaze resting on his wrinkled form, cheap clothes but weirdly artistic and sorrowful. Webs devour walls and the piano shines amongst the darkness. 

Coughs. The man coughs and almost hurriedly shuts the door, apologizing profusely at mistaking me for a long lost friend. 

A solemn smile brings him out of his pondering thoughts and a look past his trembling self raises the warnings in my head to go off. His crooked teeth smile, though not adoringly and his frozen temperament makes my stay a mere visitation as I stride back to flat no.301, my home. 

His eyes cast a glance at me as he begins his manic attempts at a postponed vigor. 

Raw, overflowing and pure passion; love.