She preferred the term observer, which sounded civic-minded, almost educational. After all, she lived next door to John Cage, and if one was to live beside a man like that, one had a responsibility to notice things. Mrs. Meagher did not consider herself a spy. At first, she assumed he was unemployed. No one who worked for a living would sit so still.

Through the narrow gap in her curtains, she would see him in the mornings, seated at a table, doing what appeared to be nothing. No newspaper. No typewriter. No radio. Just sitting. Occasionally he would stand, move an object slightly, and then sit again. Once, he spent nearly an hour opening and closing a window. She decided this required documentation. She began a notebook.

8:12 a.m. — Subject seated. No movement.
8:47 a.m. — Window adjusted. Possibly ventilation issue.
9:03 a.m. — Silence continues.

Silence was, in fact, the problem. Mrs. Meagher lived her life with the understanding that sound indicated purpose. A kettle whistling meant tea. Footsteps meant someone is coming. Conversation meant exchange. But next door there was an unsettling absence of all these things, punctuated only by small, inexplicable noises. A thud. A scrape. Once, what she could only describe as a bunch of kitchen cutlery dropped in a philosophical way.

One afternoon she heard a piano. Relieved, she leaned closer to the window. A chord sounded. Then nothing. Then another chord, unrelated to the first. Then a pause long enough to suggest the pianist had left the building. Then a single note, played with what she interpreted as either great care or complete indifference.

She wrote:

2:14 p.m. — Piano. Erratic. Possibly untrained.

Over time, her notes acquired more detail.

The subject appears to be composing without conventional markers of composition.
There is an unusual tolerance for inactivity.
Silence could be intentional.

This last idea troubled her.