Tuned a Steinway at dawn. Again.

The bass notes were singing through the floorboards, low and drunk with resonance—like someone had left a radio on in the basement of the world. I adjusted the hammers by feel, not sight, because at 5:17 a.m., the light is still too soft to trust your eyes. The client’s daughter walked in halfway through, barefoot, sleepy-eyed, and said, 'It sounds like it’s breathing.' I didn’t correct her. Some things are better left unexplained.