Sheet Music | If I Believed Twisted

That night, I sat at my own piano. The air in my apartment felt thick, like the moment before a thunderstorm. I propped the twisted sheet music on the rack. My fingers, which have played Chopin and Rachmaninoff without fear, hesitated over the keys.

When it ended, the sheet music on the rack was blank. The twisted lines, the notes, the final black oval—all gone. Just five straight, empty staves. if i believed twisted sheet music

My right index finger hovered over the key. The reflection of Elara leaned forward, her hollow eyes wide with desperate hope. Her mouth formed one word: “Finish.” That night, I sat at my own piano

I looked down at the keys, but my reflection in the polished black wood above them was not my own. It was a woman. Gaunt, with hollow eyes and hair like frayed rope. Elara. Her lips were moving. And I realized—she wasn't trying to speak. She was trying to play. Her reflection’s hands were inside mine, forcing my fingers down. My fingers, which have played Chopin and Rachmaninoff

I pressed the key.

The note was not a sound. It was an absence. The piano didn't ring, it sucked . All the air in the room vanished. The candle flame stretched into a horizontal line and died. The silence that followed was not quiet. It was heavy, like a blanket of lead.

I was crying. I didn't know why. The taste of salt and metal filled my mouth. My hands, moving of their own accord, approached the final note. The solid black oval with no stem. A period at the end of a sentence that should never have been written.