The Parlor...

The Parlor That Listened Back to Me

 

By the time you notice the silence here, it’s probably already too late.

 

At first glance, the room appears indulgent rather than ominous. It was my own maximalist’s dream staged somewhere between an artsy Paris salon and a faded Vegas penthouse. Red velvet curtains fall heavily against the walls, as if they’re trying to muffle my secrets. Or possibly the secrets of those who came before me. Gold frames cling to the walls in elaborate devotion, surrounding art that feels chosen less for beauty than for memory. A pop-art woman gasps eternally from a blue canvas, frozen in shock, while palm fronds spill shadows across lacquered black surfaces. Everything gleams, but nothing feels new. I’ve been here a while. But it wasn’t always me who took up residence in this space.

 

Oh! And then there’s my piano.

 

It sits at the center of the room like an altar, its surface crowded with objects that suggest ritual rather than decoration: sheet music left open mid-phrase, a mirror angled just enough to reflect the room: but not my reflection. Realizing my true form in this space would only take away from the magic. Resting on the piano bench though could be seen as the most unsettling detail of all: my adoptive lynx, my dear Lynxie Pooh, his body relaxed, his gaze alert, as if it belongs here more than any man ever could. My most prized and unexpected inheritance.

 

The previous owner of this room, according to the building’s few remaining residents, was a composer who went by Sir Hale. Brilliant, reclusive, and obsessed with sound. Not obvious sounds like music brings, but the way rooms absorb it. He believed spaces remembered what happened inside them. That walls, given enough time, could hum to you.

 

Sir Hale moved in forty years ago. Shortly after, neighbors began to complain. Music would be drifting through vents at impossible hours. Piano notes that repeated themselves, correcting errors, finishing phrases no one remembered starting. One tenant swore the music responded when spoken to, lowering when asked, sharpening when challenged.

 

Hale apparently dismissed it all. “The room is practicing,” he reportedly would say.

 

Then one winter evening, the music stopped.

 

Sir Hale was found the next morning, seated at the piano, hands resting on the keys, eyes open. No sign of struggle. No final note. Just silence so complete it rang.

 

What no one could explain was the lynx.

 

The lynx hadn’t been there before. At least not to anyone’s knowledge. What an odd creature. There were no open windows, no claw marks, no explanation for how a wild creature came to be resting calmly in a locked apartment, its fur still warm. Authorities tried to remove him, but he refused to move. He simply watched them carefully, unblinking, unafraid, until they left with Sir Hale.

 

The piano has not been played since. Or rather, no one has touched it. I won’t let them. Not even me.

 

Yet sometimes my neighbors still report hearing music when they stand very still. A low, careful melody, as if the room itself is remembering how. Sometimes I’ll notice my Lynxie Pooh lift his head when the sound begins, listening and looking around. I don’t think he’s listening to the notes, but to what comes between them.

 

And if you stay very still, you might see it: Lynxie tilts its head as the melody stirs, his tail marking time with a familiar patience. In his eyes, I see a knowing that is too old and familiar for any animal, as if the room kept Sir Hale but changed the shape he listens from. In this cluttered, familiar, old parlor of mine.

 

Featuring: [Rezz Room] Box Lynx Animesh

 

Fancy Decor: Salieri Piano

 

Fancy Decor: Scout Collection

Done