I've just said goodbye to my dad. I didn't become emotional, which I am proud of. He said I could leave messages, and he would answer them as quickly as possible. There is a time difference, making calls complicated. He also urged on trusting Frank. I said I would, but how can I trust this stranger? Nobody would if they'd be me, I think while entering the living room.

My piano has always comforted me, and I'm sure it wouldn't fail me now. With concentration, I play Debussy. It has been a while, but I can still remember all the notes. Beautiful chords fill the room. I am enjoying playing, until I notice a reflection in the instrument staring at me. I stop and turn around on the piano chair. Frank is leaning with his shoulder against the white column at the entrance of the room.

"Don't mind me, I'm just listening." He says with such calmness, it makes me feel suspicious.

"I'm not really used to play for strangers."

I'm not sure, but I think I saw an unfamiliar emotion strike his face in less than a second. Was it some sort of sadness I glanced in his dark eyes?

"Have you never played on a stage then, in front of an audience?"

"I have, a couple of times. But that's something completely different."

He looks critical. "How is it different?"

I sigh and look through the window. The sky is becoming darker, although it's only six o'clock. Without looking away from the bare trees, I explain.

"When I plan on bringing a classical piece of music on stage, I've studied the notes for months and my fingers have played the specific sets of keys more than a hundred times. But everytime I perform, I tell a story. A story filled with emotions. For example: a story about love. Everyone has felt love in a different way, so everyone will experience the music I make in another way, although they listen to the exact same thing. I don't personally know all of the hundred people who are listening. I don't know in what manner they felt love: I only tell my story and they listen."

Outside, the wind rushes through the trees and I can see them dance unwillingly.

"But when I play for a single person, I don't only tell my story, we go through it together. You can compare it with a movie theater. Most of the time, we aren't aware we're watching a romantic story with dozens of other strangers. We don't think about how they experience what everyone is seeing, how it makes them feel or remember. But take two strangers, place them in a room together and let them watch the same movie. They become aware of the other person. They are confronted with intimate subjects like love with someone they don't know. Likewise, I don't play to a person I don't know."

The wind changes direction, making a small group of dark leaves fly against the window glass. I can sense him staring intensively, but I don't dare to look. Electricity fills the room. I want to say something to break the thrilling tension, but my mind simply abandons me.

Three protracted heartbeats later his voice crumbles the suffocating tenseness. "I'll get to know you then."