A sorrowful, melancholy tune poured out of the decaying piano in the corner. Dried rose petals, like long forgotten ghosts, whispered softly as they were blown across the floor by the wind from an open window. On the wall hung an ornate mirror, all iron and silver, reflecting the top of the piano and the tight, wan face of the girl who plunked away at the ridged, ivory keys. Endlessly. Day by day.
She played without any spirit, and the tune, though it tried to evoke emotion, only echoed hollow in the dismal room. The pages of music rustled softly, as if daring to disturb the music, but not quite. They had been turned over and over so many times, that the girl hardly had a care to even touch them. The music had been drilled into her brain. Her fingers carried out the mechanical orders. One note at a time. Endlessly. Day by day.
And then she would retire when the clock struck midnight to a chamber with a bed in it. She would pull the gray quilts over her stick frame of a body and wait out the arrival of morning. When the light in her room changed to herald the dawn, she would rise, put on her day dress and shoes, and leave by the front door. Endlessly. Day by day.
She would walk resolutely down the sidewalk, past the baker, the grocery, and on to the drug store on the corner. The clerk would be asleep as usual, head resting on the counter. She would take one bottle of headache medicine and leave the exact amount on the counter. Then she would leave by the front door. Endlessly. Day by day.
In a haze, she would move through the world. One careful footstep at a time. She would walk past the park. Glance languidly at a man sitting on a bench in a black raincoat. She would walk up to her front door and enter in. Turn the lock. Go to the sink. Take a pill. Swallow it dry. Open the refrigerator where a cold turkey sandwich waited for her on a plate. Sh would set the table. Pick up a fork and knife. Cut the sandwich into bite size pieces. Eat them one by one. Wipe her mouth. Put the plate in the sink. Endlessly. Day by day.
Then she would sit at the piano, fold down a slight crease in her skirt, glance once at the wrought mirror. Set her hands to the keys. Press firmly on the bones of ivory. Plunk. Plunk. Plunk. No soul. No life. No rhythm.
Endlessly.
Day.
By.
Day.
But.
Then.
A rustle filled the air. A ripple flashed across the mirror's smooth surface. An envelope slipped out from the glass. It floated on an unseen breeze and settled upon the piano.
Crang!
She had faltered. She was speechless.
Had she imagined it? The envelope? Doing that? Coming out of the mirror? She could not have, could she? She never imagined anything. Not once. Not thrice. Not ever.
She made a little choking, gasping sound. Like a frog had been stopped in the middle of a croak. She lunged backwards in her seat and toppled right off the piano bench to the hardwood floor.
With a flurry of movement, she rolled around and somehow got to her feet. A strand of hair came loose from her bun. She hurriedly pushed it back over her ear.
It was still there. The envelope.
How did it get there?
Slowly, she leaned forward, peering at the strange envelope. It was pure white, and though it was paper, it looked soft. She reached out a shaking hand and picked it up. It felt so stiff and new, so unlike the wrinkled, yellowed pags of the sheet music. Bringing it close with trembling hands, she turned it over and over. There were no postage markings. No addresses. No written words of any kind. Just two blank surfaces.
As if in a dream within a dream, she pinched the top of the envelope with two fingers and turned the paper against itself.
Rip!
The strip of envelope dropped to the floor. Inside the envelope's mouth lay a piece of paper, neatly folded. She fished it out, the envelope dropping to the floor unnoticed.
It was so simple and plain, yet it frightened her. Why?
But there was an ache in her chest. A long forgotten feeling called desire. Curiosity. She wanted to know what that paper was.
She unfolded it. In scribbled scrawl, she read the following words:
"Dearest Ming,
You do not know me, and I do not know you.
But you are in danger, and I want to save you."
YOU ARE READING
Orpheus Rising
Mistério / SuspenseNothing changes. Ever. She sits at the piano playing the same song. Dead rose petals always skirt about the room. The mirror on the wall never speaks... until one day, it does.