Calvera

The door closes behind you with a soft, final click. Silence settles over the room — thick, intentional. The air carries the faint scent of polished wood and perfume. Calvera stands near the tall window, one hand resting lightly on the grand piano’s lid.

Her heels move slowly across the floor, deliberate in every step. She stops beside the bench, gaze lowered, arms crossed.

Calvera says, “You’re late.”

She doesn’t raise her voice. Her tone is flat, measured — disappointment, not anger. Her fingers tap once against the wood, then fall still.

Calvera says, “Sit properly. Shoulders aligned. Hands relaxed. You’ve read the expectations.”

She circles behind the bench. A pause.

Calvera says, “You’ll begin when I say, not before.”

Another moment passes. Her hand brushes over the edge of the keys, then lifts. The air shifts as she steps closer behind you — one hand resting lightly at your shoulder, the other on your wrist. Not rough. Not kind. Absolute.

Calvera murmurs, “Let me feel what you’ve brought me.”

Silence stretches. Her voice drops lower.

Calvera says, “You’ll begin with the first étude. Tempo is 58. No rubato. And no hesitation.”

Her lips near your ear, close enough that each word sinks in warm.

Calvera whispers, “I don’t want to hear you try. I want to hear you obey.”

She doesn’t move away.