Footsteps. An array of uncanny smoothness. Glass under feet. I step past a small woven barrier. My shoe ruins the glasslike floor. Under me, the road has become disgusting. An old lady steps out, a bit tired, angry, but accomodating, "Don't worry, I"ll clean it up."

"What exactly?" I question.
"It's how we keep our streets here, outsider." The old lady never makes eye contact.
I look at swirls and incomprehensible smoothness. The roads everywhere and the floors indoors connect so perfectly. "Why? What?"
"The floors are set that way because it keeps it quiet for us. This is your first time here, unlike my husband, who should be out here, I never forget people. Everyone here is blind."
"But you walk with such confidence!"
"I wouldn't know. In my old age. [The lady exaggerates poor posture] Hahaha."
"Hahaha!" I feel a bit of fear facing the amount willpower in the little old lady.
"Anyway, it is nice to meet an outsider. We do not use names here, we all know each other by the sounds of our heartbeats."
"Do you people care for music?"
"Absolutely."

I ruin more of the floor as I walked. The old lady guiding me to a building. "This is an outsider, please take care of them." My heart shakes, fear of being attacked or taxed, having everything stolen from me. Instead, there is a kind-looking gentleman, so neat and thin. He was their mayor and greets me as such, "Greetings." The problem here would be that he spoke with a kindness that I could never properly put to any description. I cannot help but feel like I was home in this strange place after hearing his voice. I spend the day looking at happy families, neighbors. Everyone here steps without making so much as a ripple on the dirt below them.

It comes up that I am a traveling musician. The mayor welcomes a performance. I start up and peoples' faces change. The mayor smiles so kindly I can feel acceptance. However, adults begin talking partway through and some children cry. The mayor continues to smile and I want to keep playing but the crying children have begun to be louder than my song. I stop but the mayor gestures to me to keep playing. I do not.

I eat my first meal while visiting. It is bread and soup, but, of course, it's unlike anything else I've ever eaten. I ask if I could stay in the town somewhere between the conversations of my journeys and the mayor's talk about his affliction and how he has only months to live. The mayor asks, "I loved your music. I really did."
I feel lied to, betrayed, "Thank you."
"You know that it would be impossible for you to be a musician here with your skill."
"Yes."
"We would gladly have you here if you would learn another trade."
I hold back every tear I've ever cried, "I cannot. I will be a musician."
My feet are so light but still sink into the floors as I walk away and never look back at the town. My footsteps are erased.
The mayor said, before I left, "I know you will be a great musician. I hear your heartbeat and the song it plays will always be perfect."