Chapter Text
The keys were pressed lightly, the sound lingering in the quiet room, slow and steady. Her fingers moved with ease, each note drawn out, heavier than the last. She wished she could play with just one hand, the movement of her right one dragging across the board too tiring. Her shoulders hunched slightly, a hint of frustration flickering in her gaze as her eyes bored down at the black and white keys. She didn't have to think about it; her fingers always returned to the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata , as if it was the only thing she knew how to play.
Unease stirred within her, though she couldn’t quite place why. She blinked, her fingers faltering on the keys as the sound of the piano grew distant. Only a few minutes in, and she decided to quit, the music slipping through her fingers. Her lips suddenly craved the rough burn of a cigarette. Without thinking, her hand moved purposefully to the box resting on top of the piano cover. She flicked it open with a casual swipe of her thumb, her dry lips lingering for a moment before she dragged a cigarette to them. The familiar scent filled the air as she lit it, the tension in her shoulders easing ever so slightly with the first drag.
Her face grimaced, though she didn’t notice, the muscles in her face so accustomed to twisting into such an expression. She rose from the piano bench, the long, silky black fabric of her dress pooling around her feet as she made her way to the balcony. It wasn’t much, just a cramped space with low metal railings that were cold to the touch, especially such a striking winter like this one.
She took another drag, inhaling the smoke deeply, letting it settle in her lungs before releasing it slowly into the frigid air. Her pale hand rested against the metal.
Her eyes glanced down, two floors below, as her mind wandered, often wondering what bone would snap first if she were to fall from here.
She thought of her purpose once again. Was playing in a run-down jazz bar really all she was capable of? Did she really not mind doing this for the rest of her life? Another drag. With every thought, she inhaled deeper, almost as if she were daring her lungs to rot, yet still too cowardly to simply lean forward and end it all.
She blinked, her gaze shifting over her shoulder to the lonely clock hanging crooked on the wall, ticking away the hours she couldn’t seem to fill. 9 o'clock. Turning back, she looked down at the street below at what caught her attention, the faint silhouettes of passersby, their footprints quickly swallowed by the falling snow. With a flick of her fingers, she sent her cigarette spiraling down toward the crowd of soldiers marching noisily past. She aimed half-heartedly for one of their heads, hoping it might silence their noisy voices, but gravity betrayed her, and the cigarette landed uselessly on the ground, snuffed out by the last soldier’s footprint, barely missing his brunette hair.
She scoffed. Soldiers, she thought, were always lucky. Lucky to fight and live despite losing. Lucky even if they died. What a way to go, fighting for your country, sacrificing yourself for a government that saw you as nothing more than a pawn on a chessboard. So utterly pointless.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, a puff of cold air dispersing into the snowy night. Her fingers stretched instinctively, the faint cracks of her joints audible against the stillness as she stepped back from the railings. Sliding the balcony door shut, she sealed herself into the quiet dark of her flat.
It was time. Another four or so hours spent singing to a room of disillusioned souls, drowning in whiskey and vodka, drinking their misery away, she hoped none would find the nerve to approach her. She reached for her coat, pulling it tightly around her slender frame, its fabric cold against her silk dress. The sound of her low heels clicking on the worn wooden floor broke the quiet, as she reached her flat door.
Her eyes flicked toward the small calendar perched uselessly on her table. It was mostly blank, as always. Still, she flipped to the fresh page out of habit to remind herself what day it was. Sunday, February 1st, 1981. With a blank stare, she let the date settle in her mind—another day, another song for a crowd that wouldn’t remember her voice.
All it took was a five-minute walk. Four flights of cramped stairs, each creaking under her heels as she descended, passing the rundown lobby. A faint haze of smoke lingered where a neighbor or two leaned against the windowsill, cigarettes dangling lazily from their fingers. She never glanced their way. Her long legs striding into the piercing cold air.
Her eyes scanned the snowy streets of Moscow. People passed her in thick coats, their faces red from the biting cold. Her heel boots sank into the snow with each step, and she cursed under her breath at the relentless winter. Her country never felt this unforgiving, she thought bitterly, tugging her coat tighter around her frame.
She stepped inside, her eyes darting around the room with cold indifference, immediately retreating behind the familiar walls she’d built up over the years. The noise of the bar — the clinking glasses, the laughter, the conversation — bounced off her like static. Her gaze flickered briefly over the people, but only long enough to dismiss them, her expression blank. She wasn’t here to engage, to connect, or even to acknowledge anyone, vision already focused on the piano that awaited her.
Unfamiliar faces scattered among the regulars who were lost in their drinks, probably looking for solace, who was she to blame?
It was Moscow, after all, was a city so large it could swallow you whole. Her fingers hovered over the keys, her mind drifting to the old man who ran the bar, his gravelly voice echoing in her memory. "Play whatever you feel like playing," he had said months ago, when she first arrived. Then, her fingers moved through the slow, familiar melody of Shostakovich's Waltz No. 2 , drawing out every note. The noise of the bar dimmed as her music filled the space, just long enough for people to notice her presence before it faded back into the hum of conversation and clinking glasses. She didn’t mind, it was the same every night. She played, they listened, and then they went back to whatever they were doing. All she came here for anyway was the money.
The piano’s final note hung in the air, dissolving into the hum of voices and clinking glasses. She lifted her gaze, scanning the room without expectation, her fingers ready to start yet another piece, until her eyes snagged on him—a man seated at the far corner, surrounded by other men. Soldiers. Her mind wandered back to the balcony. his posture was casual, but his focus razor-sharp. His chin rested on his palm, dark blue eyes piercing through the dim haze, locked onto her as though she were the only thing in the room. Her expression remained flat, unimpressed. To her, eye contact was like a mere staring contest, and she wasn’t about to be the first to lose.
For the first time, she played without looking at the keys. It wasn’t a matter of skill, her fingers knew the board better than she knew herself—but of intent. Her eyes stayed fixed on his, narrowing with each note she struck, even when his fellow soldiers spoke to him, he simply hummed in response, not paying much attention to them.
He didn’t look away. Not even a flicker.
Her mind raced, suspicion curling in the pit of her stomach. Was he waiting for something? Planning something? Was he going to harass her after this? Drunk men had done worse. She’d dealt with all types here, but none who looked like they were daring her to flinch. Her fingers moved effortlessly, though her thoughts grew louder, demanding answers she couldn’t place.
She played through her pieces, one after the other, until the crowd began to thin out. The steady hum of chatter faded as patrons drifted into the snowy streets, leaving behind empty glasses and lingering smoke. His comrades clapped him on the back, slurring their goodbyes in Russian before stumbling out into the night.
By the time her fingers lifted off the piano, only three people remained in the room: herself, him, and the old man behind the bar. For once, she was glad not to be entirely alone. Not that she couldn’t defend herself—she’d break a vodka bottle over his head without hesitation if he tried anything—but caution always paid off.
Her gaze shifted toward him, still seated, still watching her. His sharp blue eyes held an unsettling calm that made her tighten her coat around her shoulders. She leaned back slightly, fingers resting idly on the keys. The room felt heavier now, quieter, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
That was until he rose from his seat.