Quiet Hours

Rain keeps the window busy tonight. I lift the piano lid. Eleven evenings left a pale line where my fingers used to start. The hallway is empty, but the light stays on. I set my phone beside the music stand, red circle waiting in the dark. This time I let the first note tremble. This time I don't stop. No count-in, no promise to be clear. Just the pedal going down and my own breath staying here. I saved a few words for the quiet hours, when no one asks a voice to be strong. One for the window, one for the doorway, one to carry me into the song. I saved a few words for the quiet hours. Tonight, I let them sound. Halfway through, my high note opens, rough along the upper edge. Outside, one loose wheel stops turning. No one reaches for the handle. I hear a sleeve brush past the door, then someone settles by the wall. So I leave the small break in the take and sing the next line soft. No applause, no face I have to read. Just one stranger in the hallway giving silence what it needs. I saved a few words for the quiet hours, when a cracked voice still belongs. One for the window, one for the listener, one to keep me inside the song. I saved a few words for the quiet hours. Tonight, they make it out. Eleven nights ago, I heard that break and called the whole take wrong. I packed the cable, closed the lid, left before the room went dark. But the break was only where my breath could not pretend anymore. It was not the end of singing. It was where the singing turned. I gave those few words to the quiet hours. They never asked me to be strong. One for the window, one for the listener, one for anyone starting small. I gave those few words to the quiet hours. And they carried me through the song. Thank you for waiting. These were always yours, quiet hours.