2

When I arrived at Crescent Hall that night, I entered the auditorium and took a seat all the way in the back. It wasn’t surprising that there were very few people in attendance, given that it was a youth tournament and all.

The auditorium brought back some memories. I’d performed here numerous times before, back when I was still an amateur. And even though it had been many years since then, I could still remember the feeling of being on stage and laying my eyes on the other side of the room for the first time.

Today, a bunch of children would perform—ones likely sharing the same vivid feeling that I once did.

In the center of the stage sat a grand piano, its black surface glowing ever so softly from the overhead lights. Nothing else was in sight, at least until an anxious boy, looking to be around fifteen or sixteen, walked out into the center of the stage and nervously bowed.

I sat back and took my cough medicine, preparing for several iterations of this.

The boy sat down and began to play. His fingers tapped away at the piano keys in a very practiced manner. Though my standards were low, it sort of surprised me how precise he was.

Rachmanioff. Definitely a Prelude.

I wasn’t a pianist, but I recognized what type of piece it was almost immediately. It was clear that whoever taught him had stressed the importance of honoring the composer’s style.

Not bad. Not bad at all, I thought as the boy’s rendition slowly came to a close.

There were many more that came after him, playing all sorts of pieces in all sorts of different manners. And while I’d love to say that I enjoyed it, I didn’t. The music was fine, but I was growing increasingly impatient and restless, and I felt a headache beginning to form. The worst part about it all was that I didn’t even know if Mirelda had played yet. She had probably already finished her performance without me knowing it was her.

I’d really had enough of it all. I stood up from my seat and headed for the exit.

But then I stopped.

A young woman had come out on stage, her hair messily tied up and movements frantic. She was muttering something to herself. I watched as she approached the piano and sat, staring at the keys in front of her as if she was hesitating.

It couldn’t have been Mirelda. The confidence and determination she’d expressed through the phone were nowhere to be found. The girl on that stage exuded an air of doubt, her fingers hovering over the keys as if she was conflicted.

Even so, I found myself returning to my seat and giving her my attention. She’d caught it.

The girl pressed down on the first key, and the ephemeral sound that followed was almost fragile. She pressed a few more, trying to find her way through the rhythm.

All of the notes rang without fail. They rang. She didn’t have to worry. They’d ring.

And just as if she’d heard me, she picked up her pace.

Her hair gradually fell from its loose tie, and her motions flowed along with the music. It didn’t feel trained or rehearsed. I could tell that mistakes were being made, and the tempo was uneven. But still…it felt real.

How was I to interpret this? Was I supposed to judge it? Was this truly what she wanted to show to the world?

There was no sense of precision. It was like, instead of expressing herself through her fingertips, she was expressing herself through the music itself.

This is…Chopin. Nocturne.

I let myself take in even more.

…Right?

It had to be. I shouldn’t even have been second-guessing myself. It was just this feeling…she wanted to impart a message. A message that couldn’t be conveyed through words.

As she continued, I leaned forward and listened. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. It was the furthest thing from perfect, and yet I found myself giving into her urgent, desperate heartbeats, each thump ringing in my ears more powerfully than the last.

It was just so…imperfectly human.

That was when I suddenly heard something. I didn’t actually hear it, but rather, it flashed through my head.

To make something great…something beautiful that lasts. A masterpiece. I want to know how it feels to create something like that.

I understood. If this was truly Mirelda, this was her trying to lay out her dreams on a canvas, using passion as color to bring it to life. It was a grave attempt to place her soul into something that would bring her just one step closer to a completed picture.

I asked myself if she could do it. I asked myself if she would do it.

And to that, I didn’t have an answer.

I was but a witness. All I could do was watch and move along with the waves she created, until they gradually slowed and softened.

Her hair irregularly fluttered around her face. The audience was silent as the music ended off and one final note was left up in the air. I wasn’t sure if I wanted it to end, but my sentiments were irrelevant.

With one final drop, and no hesitation whatsoever, the girl let it ring.

There was only silence as we all watched her take in slow, heavy breaths, the sight and sound of her playing still echoing throughout the room.

I let my head fall back onto the seat. Though applause followed, I couldn’t bring myself to join in. I wasn’t moved, and I still didn’t have any real faith in the idea of her achieving her dreams. I had seen much better performances in my lifetime. This didn’t even come close to the artistry of professionals, ones who’d mastered their craft through inconceivable dedication and sacrifice.

And while that was the case…it just seemed like, for the first time in years, I had seen something genuine.