The quiet before the first tuning of the week

It’s 9:03 a.m., and I’m sitting in my car outside a house where someone’s piano hasn’t been touched since last winter. The air smells like wet concrete and old paper. I can already hear the way the low C will wobble—like a tired breath. There’s something sacred about this moment, the pause between appointments, when the world feels still enough to listen. I don’t even need to open the case yet. Just being here, waiting, is half the work.