Welcome to The Archives, where I delve into a curated collection of literary gems that I personally found across the internet. This series explores and archives inspiring writings that resonate beyond conventional platforms. At times, I get so much inspiration from these writings and I hope you will too! All credits go to their respective owners.
— I was listening to Nocturne Op.9 No.2 on YouTube and scrolling through the comment section before I came across this captivating story written by a user.
Written by: risnao
I had never particularly held any significant adoration for classical music until I started living in that small, shabby, overpriced apartment; where the walls were too thin, the kitchen too cramped, the shower wall suspiciously too dirty, and the wooden doors too creaky. It wasn’t an ideal home, but there were two things that drew me in. The petite, beautiful iron balcony that overlooked the busy streets, and the violin that was laying on a glass table, sitting among a pile of scattered yellowing sheet music, just on the neighboring balcony. It was a silly reason to move in– and why, I couldn’t possibly know– but, it was reason enough. Surely it should’ve driven me away, the thought of living next to a musician, in an apartment where the walls were practically as thick as sketchbook paper and every breath became audible, if one tried hard enough to hear. Nonetheless, I became a brainless sea bass being reeled in through a fishing hook, I took the apartment straight away.
I wasn’t quite sure what I was expecting, but it was seldom I ever witnessed any music being played from the stranger next door. In the beginning, I questioned if they were even a musician at all. I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed, but after a while I had forgotten about the whole thing. Still, I could never forget the first time I heard the melancholy piano keys echoing in the air, leaking through the crevices of their home into mine. It was late, and it was raining; it had seemed that they only ever played when the sky was dark and crying. I was sitting on the balcony, my metal chair balancing on its back two legs so my arms could drape along the railing and my feet could rest against the wall. My head was tilted back, the soft raindrops were hitting my burning skin. I brought my glass of wine up to my lips and took a generous sip. I did this often; sit outside on my balcony in the rain, letting the cold water soak my clothes until my bones became so cold I couldn’t feel the droplets hit my body anymore. The people rushing along the streets below assumedly thought me psychotic, however the experience was always rather therapeutic. And then the music came, and the sound greeted my ears like a bittersweet reunion of two soulmates who weren’t meant to be. I recognized the piece, Chopin’s Nocturne Opus 9 No. 2. Maybe my familiarity with the tune made it all the more touching, or maybe it was the faint noise of the rain against the rooftops, but that night I had felt everything in this world that could not be described. I remember being sad, and through the music, I knew the performer was too. It was special.
Gradually, the music became more frequent. Yet, they only ever played when the night sky bore rain clouds. Every time it happened I’d be there, drinking cheap wine on my narrow balcony as my black, billowy button up shirt slowly would start to cling to my ribs; the dim yellow radiance of the street lamps reflecting off the empty, wet pavement below and the white noise of the rain filling the extra moments of silence. There was one night, the stranger started playing the same piece from the first time I heard them play. There I was, where I always was on those nights, on the balcony. I had a feeling my neighbor was a bit more depressed than usual; the song was slowed down, it felt more sentimental. It felt like the peaceful pain of acceptance. A helpless smile had formed on my face as the last notes were played, and I slowly craned my neck from its place on the railing to look over at the balcony next to mine. A faint, golden light illuminated the glass of the open french window. Once the music stopped, the sound of the rain seemed almost deafening. I closed my eyes for a split moment, and when they reopened, the light was blocked by a shadow. From the open window, a man climbed out. He took a step forward and leaned his slouched body on the rail, his head hanging down over the dead streets below. I couldn’t deny I was excited to finally see the face of the neighbor who’s music echoed through my apartment. His tall figure was fitted in what had looked to be an all black dress shirt and pants; his sleeves rolled three quarters up to his elbows, the buttons were only done up to the top of his chest, the collar was messily pulled apart. His dark curls dripped of rain, his brows furrowed and his jaw was clenched so tensely that my own teeth started to hurt. He looked up from the street, and his eyes, a brilliant green, made their way over to me, only to find that I had been staring. Neither of us looked away; instead we studied each other in silence. His angry jaw seemed to have relaxed the slightest amount, and my lips twitched upward in a subtle smile. And right then, right there, was just a musician and his listener. And we both knew. A feeling of acceptance surrounded our two beings; there was nothing in particular to understand, but understand we did.
“I’ve never heard anyone play Chopin’s music as lovely as you do,” I said, daring to break the perfect silence. “It’s ethereal, truly.” He smiled, a small, faint, single laugh escaping his lips.
“I’ve never had a neighbor that doesn’t get sick of my playing,” he spoke; his voice was gentle, just like his music.
“I adore your music,” I admitted. His smile widened and he shyly glanced away, before clearing his throat and setting his intense gaze on me again.
“I noticed you, y’know,” he said. “I noticed you were listening. You’re always out here by yourself, completely drenched, sipping on your wine. Why is it you’re only outside when it’s dark and rainy?”
“Why is it you only play when it’s dark and rainy?”
He smiled.
“Because that is when you are out here to listen.”