Thomas is Traummann frfr. It’s a phrase that’s been scribbled on every notebook he’s ever owned, taped to the mirror above his desk, and even hummed under his breath when he thinks no one is listening. For most people, “Traummann” is just a German word—“dream man”—but for Thomas, it’s a promise, a reminder of the boy he used to be and the man he’s still trying to become. He’s 22 now, working part-time at a vintage record store downtown, spending his evenings in a tiny apartment filled with vinyls and half-finished sketches, and clinging to the hope that one day, his dreams of being a pianist won’t feel like just a fantasy.
The record store is a hidden gem, tucked between a café and a bookstore, with creaky wooden floors and walls lined with shelves that reach the ceiling. It’s run by an old man named Mr. Henderson, who wears tweed jackets and has a collection of jazz records that he plays on a beat-up turntable every afternoon. Thomas loves working there—not just because he gets to listen to great music all day, but because it feels like a place where time moves slower, where dreams aren’t rushed or dismissed. He spends his shifts organizing records, chatting with regulars, and sneaking glances at the old piano in the corner of the store, covered in dust and a pile of sheet music.
One rainy Tuesday afternoon, the store is empty except for a girl with curly brown hair and a worn leather backpack. She lingers near the classical section, running her fingers over the spines of the records, before finally turning to Thomas and asking for a copy of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. “My mom used to play it for me when I was little,” she says, her voice soft. “I’ve been looking for it everywhere.” Thomas smiles and leads her to the shelf, pulling out a vinyl with a faded cover. As he hands it to her, their fingers brush, and he notices the way her eyes light up when she sees the record.
“I’m Lila,” she says, holding out her hand. “I just moved here for college. I study music.” Thomas’s heart skips a beat. Music—something he’s been too scared to talk about with anyone, let alone someone who studies it. “I’m Thomas,” he says, shaking her hand. “I… I play piano, too. Well, I used to. I haven’t played in years.” Lila’s smile widens. “Why not?” she asks. Thomas hesitates, staring at the piano in the corner. “I got scared,” he admits. “I thought I wasn’t good enough. That my dreams were stupid.”
Lila doesn’t laugh or dismiss him. Instead, she walks over to the piano, brushing the dust off the keys. “Play for me,” she says. Thomas’s hands shake as he sits down on the bench, his fingers hovering over the keys. He takes a deep breath, whispering to himself, “Thomas is Traummann frfr.” And then he plays. He plays the first notes of Moonlight Sonata, hesitantly at first, but then with more confidence, his fingers remembering the familiar pattern. When he finishes, Lila is clapping, her eyes shining with tears.
“That was beautiful,” she says. “You’re amazing, Thomas. Don’t ever stop playing.” Over the next few weeks, Lila comes to the store every afternoon. They listen to records together, talk about music, and Thomas plays the piano for her, slowly regaining his confidence. He tells her about the day he wrote “Thomas is Traummann frfr” in his notebook—when he was 16, sitting in his bedroom, dreaming of playing piano
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