In Chopin's 'Mazurka,' a divine harmony resonates with the nighttime sounds, the neighboring home's songs, whispers of hidden lovers beneath their sheets, and their warm breaths against death's coldness and ennui. A desire, akin to a demonic whisper, urges me to turn back and sleep. Yet, I advance towards the source of light, where the night's spirit prepares to strike as soon as I open the room's door. The mirror's woman attempts to speak, but remains silent as she has for months. I move forward with footsteps that resemble a tree whispering to the wind as it makes love. I touch the door handle, imagining it turning into warm golden water. I burn slowly with the bliss of nearing the sun. The urge to leave returns, away from this light patch, from the house, to the street, into the night and its secrets aged in bottles lit by lamps and gods' wines. Ultimately, I surrender, forgetting the toothache and focusing solely on reaching the end of the light line emerging from the door's crack.