The piano’s resonance was not merely music; it was a force, a contagion that seeped through her, unbidden and unrelenting. Each note, struck with precision and fervor, echoed in her marrow, filling the spaces between her thoughts with an unsettling beauty. It was not the kind of melody one hears and forgets; it was an invasion—an unwelcome guest carving its place within her, transforming her body into an instrument of its own making.

The sound coursed through her, overwhelming her senses like a feverish plague. It was haunting, the way the lower registers rumbled in her chest while the higher notes pierced the air, scattering shards of light into her mind. She could feel the music in her ribcage, in her spine, as if it were rewriting her, leaving her simultaneously fragile and indomitable.

And yet, in this invasion, there was a peculiar intimacy. The piano was not merely played—it spoke, and its language was one she understood without knowing why. It told stories of longing and despair, of love and loss, its whispers as potent as its crescendos. As the final note faded, she was left altered, the remnants of its power lingering within her, as though her very bones carried its echo, forever changed by its touch.

~Corina