A small room behind a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

The door next door has a musical squeak. Every couple of days a new note enters its arpeggio. The most recent note allowed the arpeggio's middle section its major chord.

But it's not all melodies around here. There's rhythm, too. The hand that opens and closes the door is linked to a pair of heels that, en route to the water closet, pound like mallets on a timpani.