The quiet after the tuning

I just finished a job at a house where the piano had been ignored for years—dusty, out of tune, and humming like a tired dog. The owner didn’t know what they were missing until I played the first chord. Then silence. Just that. No words. Just the way light fell across the keys when the sun hit them at 4:17 p.m. I left the window open. The air smelled like wet pavement and something older, like memory. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so certain about anything as I did in that moment: some things are worth the trip, even if no one says thanks.