Steps. I know the sound of these steps. Keys rattling. I know the sound of these keys. Accelerated breath. I know the sound of this breath. Hesitating thoughts. I know the frequency of these thoughts. Passing. The voice passes through wires. The whistle, before the open door, ajar, transforms into a call. Telephone numbers are turned into expectation. I don’t whistle. In the supermarket the mother tells her child: “don’t stare at her!” The child is stubborn: “But I like her.” I lean forward - while my keys rattle, while my boots make a military sound, while my breath accelerates - and whisper: “I like you too.” Our eyes smile. The piper at the gate of silence needs no calls.