Francesca (written by Adeline)
 

Every evening I went to the bar. The bar was crowded, a place where those writers be socialize. From where I sat, I could observe the whole group. They all seem very confident. I didn’t know what they were talking about , writing techniques, maybe. After sitting there alone for a few days, I started to listen to what these future authors of bestsellers debated. Seeing me listening, made them more enthusiastic in their pleas, which meant more puzzling and tedious talks. While listening to these discussions I my mind often wondered wandered to my story, which, to my surprise, nearly had no plot, no conversation, no skills.  

On the fourth evening of the course,  I was walking around aimlessly. The others had gone out for a night drinking in the village. In the main building, there was only a bored barkeeper. Ignoring him, I walked into the open air again and went to the supporting building. It was my favourite building in the hotel area, a vintage house half covered by ivy. There was a small library, which people seldom visit and where I went for working on my assignments. Sitting there between the huge bookshelves gave me a strong sense of safety. I pushed the door next to the library open and entered the music room with a grand piano in the middle, and a large window looking over the far hills. I sat at the piano and saw the moon shining brilliantly. Looking at the moon made me feel lonely. I started playing the piano, for the moon. 

Playing that tender, soft music gave me an intense desire to cry. I couldn’t think of anything else, I could only feel my fingers moving on the smooth piano keys. I wished that if the moon was a person and heard what I was playing, he would come in through the open window and hold me in his arms. That’s all I wanted. I felt the tears rolling down my cheeks.  

It took me a while to calm down, after that I played some other pieces. I seemed to be less furious than before, and I decided that my music ended now. When I walked out of the room, I noticed there was a man sitting on a chair against the wall, sleeping soundly. I recognized his face, it was Harry Bens, I could only remember that he wrote a detective story and that he interrupted me one day when I was writing in the library. What was he doing here? Was he drunk? All I hoped was that he didn’t see me cry. 

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