Burning Up (M.YG+ P.JM)

Ch 05| Not a secret

A while after I smelled burnt meat from the opened door of room 23, I was busy clearing the kitchen. The reply Jimin had written was on the kitchen counter waiting to be read. But I had more than enough time to read it, re read it and write a reply as well, so I didn't bother.

It was only after I finished cleaning the dishes that I wiped my hands on my apron and unfolded the piece of paper.

"Dear Yoongi,"

"Sorry for calling you noona, It's just- the people who normally cook for me were girls in general. Forgive me please?? You can cook better than the rest of them though. So that's nice. What else can I say, oh! I know, I'll tell you about myself. So, like I told you before my name's Park Jimin, I'm 21, and I live in room 23. Yeah, that's it. How about you? Tell me~"

"P.S. Can you give me something sweet for dinner?"

That wasn't helpful at all. I already knew everything he told me. Why did they refuse to tell me anything else? Why didn't he leave the room? What was the smoke? Why aren't people allowed to see him? All these questions piled into my head.

 What was he hiding? I wanted to ask, I wanted to know, but my fear of his mother restrained me from doing anything of that sort. I would keep it casual. 

Keep my distance.

Right.

Slightly scoffing, I decided to explore the third floor for a bit, and walked around the place, trying to find a clue of the identity of the mysterious Park Jimin. There were hallways and arches, simple designs of black and gold on the grey-ish white walls. There were artworks, and doors that led to many empty rooms, designed in their own unique way. There was an array of exotic decorations and ornaments- everything which suggested luxury, but nothing that suggested what the Park residence might be hiding.

There wasn't even a single picture on the walls that suggested the existence of Park Jimin. Not a trace of his presence. There were no family photographs, nor were there any portraits.It was just; professional. 

Maybe Jimin was an illegitimate child. Maybe that's why he was hidden.

Maybe that's why he was locked away.

I wandered down the endless silent hallways, unused, but well maintained. The equipment was glossy and new, so clean that my reflection mirrored off every surface. The only indication of age came from the white and black patterned wallpaper which was faded to the slightest degree.

One hallway led to another, which led to a small space. A few steps downwards, where a whole new world existed. The space was bright white, the soft brown furniture gleamed like liquid gold. The light grey furniture complemented the rich look, which was completed by the black lines of the doors and walls. 

And in the middle of that, a black piano. A black grand piano.

Who on Earth could afford two pianos? Apparently the owners of this house could.

It seemed a waste that such a valuable thing, such a beautiful creator of melodies, should be reduced into a simple ornament. It seemed to call me, reeling me in with each cautious step I took.

My fingertips grazed the glossy cover of the piano, and tangled along the little latch that could open up a beautiful world of music.

That call was something I could not resist. In a trance, I sat on the leather stool which stood before the instrument, and unveiled the white and black keys which had so selfishly been hidden away  from the respect they deserved.

My hands softly grazed the surface of the keys, gently pressing down on them, and soon, the silent, lifeless third floor flooded with the sound of a simple lively melody.