In a certain town.
Drawn by the sound of piano music, I peeked inside through the half-open door.
Warm air drifted out, carrying the delicious scent of baking bread.
It was too late for lunch, yet still early for dinner.
In the dimly lit interior, two figures were visible. One played the piano while the other held a slice of pizza and poured wine into a glass. Thinking it was before opening hours, I moved to close the door—only to meet the gaze of the pizza-eater.
Inside, a short, three-step staircase fanned out from the entrance. A grand piano stood slightly toward the window in the center of the floor. Surrounding it, chairs and sofas of various sizes and designs were placed in seemingly random yet perfect spots. Every piece bore the look of decades of use.
I chose a velvet single-seater sofa and sat down.
Closing my eyes, I imagined the grand piano's bull galloping along to the melody.
