The Case of the Persistent Trombone

Agnes, a woman whose enthusiasm rarely exceeded a well-placed semi-colon, discovered a small, perfectly circular aperture in her living room wall. From it emanated the distinct, if somewhat muffled, sound of a trombone attempting jazz. She peered closer. No dust, no debris, just a smooth, inexplicable void humming 'Take Five.' Agnes considered calling the landlord. She then considered not calling the landlord. The latter option, requiring less effort and social interaction, won decisively. "It's not load-bearing," she murmured to her cat, Mittens, who was contemplating a dust bunny with similar gravitas. Agnes retrieved a decorative coaster – the one with the slightly chipped lighthouse – and affixed it over the hole with a strip of masking tape. The trombone persisted, now merely a faint, tinny echo. "There," she announced to the room, "problem solved. Or at least tastefully disguised." Later that evening, Mittens began twitching his ears rhythmically. Agnes merely observed, "It appears Mittens has found his muse. Or perhaps the trombone is now playing something with a more compelling beat." She poured herself another cup of chamomile, the distant brass now merely another feature of her impeccably ordinary Tuesday.