I couldn’t sleep, so I poured myself a glass of water in the kitchen. That was when American composer Philip Glass walked through the door, a keyboard tucked under his arm. Why are you here, I asked. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. Instead, I heard the murmur of the air conditioner and the hum of my fridge. The click of beetle wings. The softening of my lungs. It was beautiful. It lasted for fifty years and twenty-two seconds. Then Philip Glass swung out the keyboard and told me it was time for my dirge. I threw my glass of water at him, cried out no, no, not again. But it was no use. He pulsed out a melody, a passacaglia that went up and down, up and down. Only three notes that danced around each other in infinite circles. It spun. It spun. It brought me all the way back to the beginning. I woke up in my mother’s bed, a glass of water beside me. And that was when Philip Glass walked through the door.

Elena Zhang is a Chinese American writer and mother living in Chicago. Her work can be found in HAD, The Citron Review, and Flash Frog, among other publications. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, and was selected for Best Microfiction 2024 and 2025.