Chapter 3 — The Unforeseen Overture

Third Person (Alternating focus between Eric and Alice)

The afternoon sunlight slanted sharply against the brick facade of Eric’s apartment building, streaking across its weathered surface like the faint traces of a forgotten melody. Patches of ivy climbed stubbornly upward, their green tendrils reaching for the restless sky. Alice stood at the threshold, clutching a slim but overflowing manila folder against her chest. Her glasses had slipped halfway down her nose again, but adjusting them felt like an unnecessary distraction. Her mind churned with rehearsed arguments, contingency plans, and a stubborn undercurrent of doubt.

“This is a mistake,” she muttered under her breath. Her free hand tightened around the strap of her bag, her knuckles white. “He’s going to laugh—no, worse, he’s going to slam the door in your face. And then what?” Her feet, however, didn’t seem to share her apprehension. They carried her forward, the heavy door to the lobby creaking under her hesitant push.

The interior was dim and unassuming, the faint smell of floor polish mingling with the woody tang of age. Alice paused by the doorman’s desk, where a balding man in a sweater vest regarded her with a mixture of suspicion and apathy. A crossword puzzle lay open in front of him, his pen hovering mid-clue as his gaze flicked over her.

“I’m here to see Eric Hall,” she said, injecting what she hoped was confidence into her voice. Her words hung in the air like a tentative knock against a closed door.

The man raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Mr. Hall doesn’t usually take... visitors,” he said, the pause deliberate, as though sorting her into a category somewhere between annoyance and improbability.

Alice adjusted her grip on the folder, her fingers brushing against the crinkled edges. “I know,” she admitted, offering what she hoped was a disarming smile. “But I promise this is important. I’m—well, it’s about a project. A scientific one.” The statement, while technically true, felt flimsy even as it left her lips.

The doorman squinted, his expression unmoved. “You don’t look like a scientist,” he said flatly, glancing at her stained sneakers and rumpled jacket.

Alice hesitated, then let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Well, I’m not exactly what you’d call conventional. But I really think Mr. Hall might be interested in what I have to say. Or at least,” she faltered, “he should be.”

The man sighed, clearly unimpressed but too indifferent to argue. “Suite 4B,” he said at last, gesturing lazily toward the elevator. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

As the elevator doors slid shut, Alice exhaled sharply, the quiet hum of the machinery amplifying the loud thrum of her heart. Her reflection in the polished steel doors stared back at her, pale and wide-eyed. She whispered fragments of her pitch under her breath, trying to wrestle her chaotic thoughts into coherence.

When the doors opened, the hallway greeted her with a muted stillness, the faint smell of varnish and someone’s overcooked dinner lingering in the air. Her steps felt unnaturally loud against the well-worn carpet as she approached 4B—a plain wooden door with a tarnished brass number. For a moment, she simply stood there, her knuckles hovering inches from the surface. Her mind raced with doubts and second guesses.

Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she knocked.

Inside, Eric froze mid-step, the sudden sound slicing through the thick silence like the sharp strike of a dissonant chord. He frowned, his mug of cold coffee forgotten on the counter. For a moment, he thought he’d imagined it. But then the knock came again, sharper this time. His frown deepened as he crossed the small living room to peer through the peephole.

What he saw made him pause. A woman stood on the other side—a petite figure with messy brown hair and round glasses that perched precariously on her nose. She wore an expression that was somehow both determined and nervous, her fingers clutching a folder as though it were a lifeline. She didn’t look like a reporter or a salesman, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t trouble.

“Who is it?” he called, his voice rough from disuse.

The woman startled slightly before replying, her voice muffled but clear. “Uh, hi! My name’s Alice Bennett. I’m a scientist—I work in sensory technology, and I—well, I’ve been following your career. Or, I guess, I used to.”

Eric stiffened. His career. The words landed with the weight of a forgotten memory dragged back into the light—a memory he had spent years burying. His hand tightened around the edge of the door. “I’m not interested,” he said curtly, already stepping back.

“Wait!” Alice’s voice rose, pressing against the barrier he was so eager to maintain. “Please—just give me five minutes. I promise, if you don’t want to hear what I have to say, I’ll leave.”

Eric hesitated, his hand lingering on the doorknob. Something in her voice—earnest, almost pleading—made it difficult to dismiss her outright. Against his better judgment, he unlocked the door and opened it just enough to glare at her through the gap.

Alice blinked up at him, momentarily thrown by his imposing presence. He was taller than she’d anticipated, his lean frame slightly stooped as though weighed down by invisible burdens. His piercing blue eyes, sharp with irritation, seemed to cut straight through her, and his unkempt hair and rumpled sweater only added to the impression of a man who had retreated from the world.

“Make it quick,” he said flatly.

Alice nodded, clutching the folder tighter. “Thank you. I, um, I came to talk to you about my invention. It’s a device that translates sound into tactile and visual sensations. I read about your accident—” She stopped abruptly, wincing at the way his expression darkened. “I mean, I didn’t mean to pry, but I thought maybe—”

“Stop.” His voice was low but carried an edge that silenced her instantly. “I don’t know what you’re after, but I don’t need your pity. Or your... gadgets.”

“It’s not pity,” Alice said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s about connection. It’s about giving people like you—people who’ve lost their hearing—a way to experience music again. Not the way you used to, of course, but maybe in a way that’s still meaningful.”

Eric’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Meaningful,” he repeated, his tone laced with disdain. “Do you even know what music is? What it means to someone like me? It’s not just sound or vibrations. It’s everything. And you think you can replicate that with a piece of machinery?”

Alice flinched but didn’t back down. “I know it’s not the same,” she said softly. “I know I can’t give you back what you lost. But that doesn’t mean it’s worthless. Wouldn’t it be better to have something than nothing?”

He stared at her for a long, tense moment, his expression unreadable. The faint hum of the elevator at the end of the hall filled the silence between them. Finally, he sighed and began to close the door. “I’m not interested,” he said firmly.

Panic flared in Alice’s chest, and without thinking, she stuck her foot in the gap. “Please,” she said, her desperation spilling over. “Just try it. You don’t even have to keep it—you can throw it away, smash it, whatever you want. But try it first. That’s all I’m asking.”

Eric looked down at her foot, then back up at her face. His annoyance was clear, but behind it lingered something else—a flicker of curiosity, or perhaps the faintest shadow of doubt. He hesitated, his hand resting on the edge of the door.

“What’s the catch?” he asked finally.

“No catch,” Alice said, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart. “Just five minutes of your time. That’s it. If you hate it, I’ll leave, and you’ll never hear from me again. Deal?”

Eric didn’t answer immediately. His gaze shifted past her, toward the window at the end of the hall, where sunlight streamed in like a silent invitation. Finally, he stepped back, opening the door wider. “Five minutes,” he said. “Not a second more.”

Alice smiled, stepping inside quickly before he could change his mind. The apartment was dim, its air thick with the scent of varnish and time. Her eyes darted to the piano in the corner, its shrouded form a ghostly reminder of something cherished and abandoned. She felt her throat tighten but pushed the emotion aside.

“Thank you,” she said again, her voice quieter now. “I promise, you won’t regret this.”

Eric didn’t respond. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, watching her with a mixture of skepticism and resignation. For now, he would humor her. But only for five minutes.