Gemotions

It was the piano. The late-night practice sessions. The clumsy chords. The relentless repetition of the same scales. Now, the elderly couple from across the hall were at her door. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, known for their unwavering punctuality and their love of classical music.

Heads down, she opened the door. Her hands were clammy. She’d always admired the Johnsons; their quiet dignity, their genuine kindness. Now, she felt like she'd betrayed them.

Mrs. Johnson did the talking. Her voice was gentle, but her words were firm. “Dear, we just… We find it difficult to sleep.” A blush crept up the girl’s neck. She felt utterly exposed, her musical ambitions suddenly seeming childish and selfish. She mumbled a promise to be quieter, her voice barely a whisper, hoping that she could somehow make up for it.