Tuned a Steinway at dawn

The action was stiff, the bass keys needed a full reset—felt like coaxing a grumpy old bear into tune. I left at 7:15, the sun just clearing the rooftops. The piano hadn’t been played in months, but when I touched the keys, it sang like it remembered. That’s the thing no one sees: the moment between silence and sound. It’s not magic. Just patience. And the smell of oil on felt.