Rattling home in the taxi, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the darkened window, eerie and pale. This version of myself was easiest to look at. All that fuss over my outfit and hair, and for what? Half a champagne glass, zero tiny food items, and a graceless exit with the glitterati watching.

I don’t want to do this.

This life isn’t for me.

The realization came as a shock of relief, like taking off a scratchy sweater and letting the air hit my bare skin.

Not this. Try again.

I could breathe.

The house felt crypt quiet when I shut the door behind me. But as my ears adjusted to the thick silence, the world grew gradually noisier.

I could hear the hall clock ticking. I could hear the AC growling. I could hear the city outside and the neighbors arguing and . . .

I could feel my piano waiting.

I sat. Lifted the keyboard cover. Tried the pedals, one, two, three.

I thought for a second. And then, tentatively, quietly, I played it.

My Amberley audition.

Schubert’s Piano Sonata in A Major; Bach’s Fugue No. 24 in B Minor; Debussy’s Arabesque No. 1—one tiny rebellion. They’d wanted something virtuosic for the third selection. I’d picked something I liked instead.

The piano still felt cold beneath my fingers, but I kept playing, buffeted by the memories I’d been blocking out for the past three months—the sweet orange oil smell of the audition room, the stage lights flooding the blind screen in opaque yellow, the three vague shadows beyond, the bench still warm from the last auditioner. I remembered exactly how I’d rushed that glissando, flubbed this B-flat, how there had been a voice in my head whispering, “Is this good enough? Is this good enough?” like every time I played. I remembered a real voice, Arnold Rombauer, saying “Thank you,” in dismissal. Flat. Bored. Faintly irritated.

And I felt once again what I’d felt then, hearing that verdict—relief.

It was an ax coming down. It was an answer.

Tonight, here, now, I muddled through to the Debussy. I missed a few notes. And then more. And more, and more, and more, my fingers falling over themselves, begging me to stop.

I did. I gave in, slumping.

A floorboard creaked behind me. Oscar stood leaning against the doorframe, listening, his expression deeply peaceful. He straightened as I turned, clearing his throat.

“Back already.” My voice sounded empty.

“I was worried about you.”

I looked down. “You heard me play?”

“The last piece.”

He sounded thoughtful more than friendly. Slowly, he strode over to stand beside the piano. I waited for him to lie: “You play beautifully.” Or “I can see potential.” Or “There’s plenty of work out there for a good accompanist!”

But he stayed silent, watching like he finally understood.