The listing appeared at 11:47 PM on a Tuesday. Couch, dining table, four chairs—all free. "Must pick up tonight. Must also take piano."

Three glasses of wine into apartment therapy, scrolling through Facebook Marketplace after leaving everything to Marcus in the divorce, the narrator sees exactly what they need: a deep green velvet couch, a solid oak table, the foundations of a home that might finally feel like theirs.

The seller's messages are strange. "The door will be unlocked. Let yourself in. Paperwork is on the table. Sign before you take anything."

Will they be there?

"No. I can't be there anymore."

The house is wrong. It rejects streetlight. The buildings on either side lean away from it. Inside, dust and something sweet that smells like flowers that never saw sun. The furniture is there, beautiful as promised. And the piano—massive, dark wood gone almost black with age—dominates the room in ways that transcend physics.

The paperwork seems standard. No returns, no claims, all transfers final. The narrator signs without reading the small print.

The door won't open anymore.

The listing must continue. The listing has always continued.

And somewhere in the darkness, a woman who's been listening to this piano for a very long time finally sees the door begin to unlock—because someone new is climbing the porch steps, someone desperate, someone who saw a listing that seemed too good to be true.