I couldn't tell you how long the dark stretched before the piano appeared. An old upright, L. Neufeld, Berlin worn into the wood above the keys, resting in a room that had never held anything until now. A piece waited on the stand. I've never read a note in my life — but my hands seemed to remember a song I'd never learned. I've been playing for what feels like minutes. Somehow I know it's been longer. It always is, here. And when I finally lift my hands, the music doesn't stop. It drifts off somewhere into the dark, soft and unhurried, as though the room had been listening all along — and wanted to hear the rest. #backrooms - @flowkey