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The room smelled the same, of that reed diffuser she’d bought in December. Not as strong, but definitely still wintery and of Christmas. Everything was exactly as she’d left it.
She’d told herself she was only sitting down for a minute, that she wasn’t going to sing. The piano was obviously where it always was, but there was a layer of dust on the lid. The plant on the windowsill had died, and she’d replaced it with a fake one. She sat on the bench, and in exactly that moment, a car alarm started to go off in short intervals. Then it stopped, and she thought about what to do with the quiet.
She wasn’t going to sing, only hum.
One note, low and somewhat unremarkable. The kind of sound that could be mistaken for just… a random sound. What she felt was her throat, and it was tighter than she remembered. Her breath felt weirdly managed. She never used to think about breathing because it had always just happened.
She tried a minor third and stopped. That voice was not quite hers. Well, it was, but it felt unfamiliar. And intellectually, she knew it would be like this. Voices change when you don’t use them. They sound more cautious and need a bit of time. She had said this to students, dozens of them, over the years: The voice is responsive, it reflects what’s happening to the rest of you. And she had believed it when she had said it.
The car alarm started again. She sat with her hands in her lap and thought about the dust and the fake plant. Maybe she’d try again tomorrow.
Or she’d sit here for a bit longer…
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