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The twilight was dripping down the clothesline as the current of the old record player flowed over the windowsill. The piano keys are like sponges soaked in water, each sound with a damp echo, mixed with the humming of the refrigerator compressor of the convenience store in the distance, and a fuzzy light spot in the room.
The rain suddenly became dense, like someone shaking off a wet scarf outside the window, the slight scratching sound of vinyl records taking the opportunity to get in, and the sound of keyboard tapping woven into a loose net. There was tiny dust floating in the halo of the desk lamp, which swayed gently with the low frequency of Beth. In a trance, I thought it was ginkgo leaves that had not been swept clean in late autumn last year and swirled on the floor.
When the last note gets stuck in the murmur of the tape, the shirt on the clothesline is still dripping, and the sound dripping into the aluminum basin just catches the blank left by the melody.