After a minute of silent spying, it was time for me to say something. But what does one say to a forlorn-looking, piano-playing frog who appears one night in the cereal cupboard? I said, “Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt.”

He didn’t hear me over the loud, low notes he was pounding out. His head sagged closer to the keys.

“Life is….life is…,” he said in a quivering whisper. Then, the pale frog began sobbing. While his tiny shoulders shook, his fingers never quit playing. They traveled down the keyboard, playing increasingly deeper and darker chords.

I had come downstairs for a bowl of cereal. But what I found inside the pantry, instead of cornflakes, was a mystery. Who was this frog? Why was he so sad? Was there anything I could do to help?

I didn't want to intrude on the frog any more that night than I already had. I quietly closed his door and went up to bed.