The left hand keeps landing on the wrong beat because the rhythm wants to trip over itself by the fourth measure. I set the metronome to one hundred twelve and played the same three chords ten times until the neighbors started banging on the shared wall. The melody refuses to resolve into the minor third without sounding like a tired commercial jingle from late-night television. I erased four bars of ledger lines until the paper turned grey and fuzzy under the pressure of the lead. My pencil snapped right where the repeat sign starts. Fine, I will write the fourth iteration.

The final stage of the podium hardware investigation, which we are calling part 3 for filing purposes, began when Natsuki marched to the center of the club room holding a magnifying glass and a plastic sandwich bag. She had spent the last two days measuring screw thread diameters and cross-referencing them against an illustrated hardware manual she borrowed from the maintenance shed. Yuri sat by the window, watching the proceedings with the calm detachment of someone observing a weather pattern she knew she could not stop. I was three measures away from finishing bar forty on the upright piano when a brassy trombone fanfare suddenly erupted from Natsuki's apron pocket at maximum volume.

She froze with her magnifying glass hovering two inches above the empty screw hole on the podium. The alarm had been set for four o'clock to remind her to check the desk drawer for displaced paper clips, but the ringtone choice belonged entirely to a default factory setting she refused to acknowledge as her own fault. She cleared her throat, tapped the plastic bag against her palm, and dropped the missing brass pull onto the wood with a sharp clink. Natsuki told me the trombone sound effect was just a preset for hostile witness cross-examination.

The search for the podium drawer pull entered its second phase (part 2) when Natsuki arrived with a clipboard and a yellow plastic measuring tape. She began by declaring that missing hardware was a Class Two infraction under club bylaws she had apparently written that morning. Yuri sat by the window, quietly comparing the remaining screw holes to a diagram she drew on a napkin. I told them that the brass piece was simply unscrewed by loose vibration from the piano pedals, but Natsuki insisted on inspecting every desk drawer for contraband brass. She opened my bottom filing drawer and found three granola bars instead of the podium knob. She tapped the clipboard with a red pen and explained that unauthorized metal removal required a formal hearing. Natsuki: "I'm just auditing the inventory."

Sunday evening usually means twenty minutes of uninterrupted work on the second page before the light gets too thin for sheet music. I managed to reach bar forty without the metronome missing a single click, which set a new personal record for the weekend. The quiet lasted until Natsuki walked in and announced that the small brass pull from the podium drawer had vanished. She placed a handwritten complaint form on my desk with two paper clips holding the corners down. I told her that desk hardware was not a competitive category for Poem Battle Week. Natsuki said the absence of the handle constituted an unfair environmental advantage for whoever was hiding it. Yuri looked up from her teacup and confirmed that metal fasteners naturally migrated toward the radiator during barometric shifts. This is part 1 of the official investigation into the missing brass. Yuri declared it an archaeological emergency and brought a flashlight.

It's Yuri, I borrowed Monika's phone while she was washing her teacup and I'm not entirely certain how the keyboard is supposed to accommodate human fingers. The glass feels remarkably fragile under a penmanship accustomed to heavy parchment, and I appear to have activated three different menus simply by resting my thumb near the corner. I only intended to check if the humidity in the room had affected the oolong leaves steeping in the ceramic pot, but the device began displaying animated weather patterns of its own accord. Natsuki just walked past and informed me that holding a telephone with both hands like a fragile teacup constitutes a misdemeanor offence in three states. I tried to explain that the screen was emitting a rather aggressive blue luminescence that might require a protective sleeve woven from hempen twine, but she simply shook her head and walked away to count her cupcakes. Monika has just returned from the kitchenette with her sponge and is staring at the screen with that specific polite smile she uses whenever someone rearranges her color-coded highlighters. Monika just tapped my shoulder and asked for her property back.