4: Music

A calm early-morning sea.

The quiet sound of low waves rolling toward the shore.

A boy was listening at the waterline.

I might not come back here.

He thawed his cold fingers with his breath. The season was turning toward winter.

Today was the winner’s concert; tomorrow, he would move to Tokyo. Another concert in Tokyo, and then his flight to Paris.

There was no wind. The sea stretched endlessly.

But listen.

The boy closed his eyes. When he listened, the world was full of music.

Right, Maestro?

Pouring light, morphing clouds.

Orange arrows shooting from a point on the horizon.

He opened his eyes and looked around.

This life-energy. The world coming awake. Is this not the greatest music? The true form of music?

So the boy thought.

He was happy. The world was full of music.

I’ll show everyone how full it is.

I even have a friend who’ll join me.

He stretched his arms and inhaled.

He heard minute wings buzzing.

A honeybee.

Where did it come from?

Did it follow him?

He listened. It was a sound celebrating, blessing the world. The sound of life itself.

I have to go back there, where I can hear that sound. Where the sound always energizes me, inspires me.

He turned around. With forceful, energetic steps, he retreated from the sea.

Music. The art of the gods.

The boy was music. His every motion, music made flesh.

The music ran.

In this blessed world, one person—music made incarnate, made one with music—ran on, cutting through the morning air, away from the ever-still sea.

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