Cmh || Cmh || Tushentsov

As a child, when other girls dreamed of dolls and dresses, she dreamed of piano keys. Black and white, shiny, they beckoned. But the reality was harsh: the family was barely making ends meet, and a synthesizer, let alone a real piano, was out of the question.

The years passed. The girl grew up, finished school, found a job. And then, finally, the day came when she could afford her first, albeit very basic, synthesizer. It wasn't the instrument she'd dreamed of, but for her, it meant the world. She spent hours, days, weeks at it, trying to master musical notation and learn the simplest melodies. Progress was slow, excruciatingly slow. Her fingers wouldn't obey, the melodies would fall apart, and the notes would get jumbled in her head. Despair sometimes crept in, but she didn't give up.

One day, over lunch at work, she shared her problem with a colleague. After listening, she smiled: "You know, I have a friend, Ruslan. He gives piano lessons. A very decent guy. Maybe you should give him a try?"

Hope flared in her heart. She immediately contacted Ruslan. He was exactly as her colleague had described: calm, patient, with deep eyes. The first lesson was nerve-wracking. She felt awkward and clumsy, but Ruslan knew how to create an atmosphere of trust and support. He didn't scold her for mistakes, but gently guided, explained, and demonstrated.

Six months passed. Her lessons with Ruslan became more than just lessons, but a true ritual, a release. She felt her fingers becoming more obedient, melodies taking shape, music beginning to flow. Today, she was with him again. A ray of sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Ruslan sat next to her, his gaze focused on her hands, on her posture.

She plays another scale, trying her best. Suddenly, he gently places his hand on her shoulder. The warmth of his palm penetrates the fabric of her blouse.

"Don't slouch," he says quietly, his voice sounding painfully familiar. "Keep your back straight."