"Who are you?" As the words left my lips, I realised 'what are you?' would be a more pertinent question to ask, along with 'where did you come from?' and 'why are you here?'. The irony didn't escape me.
She stared at me with her beautiful eyes. The moonlight was fading as dawn approached, casting longer shadows across the room and across her face.
"I am Saiya." She spoke softly, sadly. She glanced across the room at the sky.
Silently, she unhooked her arm from mine and slid off the bench, her body flowing towards the French windows. She gripped the door frame, the metal-tips of her fingers gouging valleys in the wood. My heart sank; she was leaving me.
"Make music tomorrow, and I come for you." With that, she turned, spreading her arms towards the sky. Her body was enveloped in the material of her skirts, which dissipated into a thousand pin-pricks of opaque dust against the sinking moon.
My face was cold. I lifted my bleeding hand to my face, surprised to find tears wetting my cheeks. I swiped at them, refusing to think about what just happened with her.
I slipped back into my room and caught what few hours of sleep my raging mind would allow. In school, I couldn't focus. Nothing could drive my mind away from the intriguing, enigmatic lady who visited me for the piano. My friends left me alone; they knew not to disturb me. I was grateful, afraid I would blurt out the exact thing I shouldn't: that I had been visited by an alien. Even saying it silently sounded insane.
I barely ate. I couldn't even focus on physics. The hours dragged on, my tired mind anxious for night to fall and the moon to rise.
The setting sun was a ghastly streak of yellow and red across the purpling sky. I wished the Sun would burn out, leaving the glowing moon in its place forever. The scientist in me nagged that it was impossible, but I shunted him aside. That wasn't important. Only she – Saiya – was important now.
At thirteen minutes past one, the moon fully overhead, I snuck down the corridor to the piano room. The silence was pregnant with my anticipation. I opened the French windows wide, my fingers brushing over the gouges in the door frame. Her fingers had been here, I thought, sighing.
I scampered across the room, and let my soul pour out across the piano. I shut my eyes, rocking back and forth with the rhythm. The room chilled with a sudden breeze, and the door creaked again, but I didn't open my eyes. Though I couldn't see her, I knew she was in front of me.
I grew impatient. Why didn't she sit next to me and play? Why didn't she lay her hand over mine to cease me? Why didn't she fix me with the stare that could quiet a thousand supernovae?
I opened my eyes, and she was there. Her hair floated around her head, now stuck with pins and sticks that trailed luminescent beads and shining metal. Her hand was extended, the pale palm facing skywards. I stopped playing and laid my palm in hers. She gripped tight, in one fluid movement, pulling me from my seat and into her arms.
Then there were her eyes. The supernovae in my mind froze, and I was still.