In that moment, I sensed I had been a lost child, wandering aimlessly in search of a purpose. Call it a purpose or a sign, a landmark or a feeling. I knew this was the sound I’d been seeking. As long as I had this sound, I could live – this was all I could be sure of. I recalled myself ten years earlier, how I’d felt free in the forest. Incomplete, not yet liberated from the constraints of the body, but still utterly free. The gods of my world then were the trees, the leaves, the berries, the soil. But now it was sound that guided me.

By the time I exited the concert hall it was already getting dark. In preparation for tomorrow’s recital Mr Itadori was also heading home. Tomorrow he’d meet up with the pianist for final adjustments and the rehearsal. For the actual performance, he would remain backstage to watch over the piano. He’d be hard at work the entire day.

The two of us walked to the car park in companionable silence. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I felt quietly exhilarated, but at the same time calm and collected.

Fastening my seatbelt in the car, I was finally able to speak. ‘That was amazing.’

Mr Itadori turned to me and smiled. ‘I’m very pleased to hear you say that.’

A pause and then I asked, ‘Mr Itadori, why did you hire me?’

It was the managing director who had the final say on hiring decisions, so I knew Mr Itadori couldn’t have been entirely responsible. Still, I suspected it was through his good offices that the Eto Music Shop had taken me on.

‘First come, first served,’ he said.

‘By first you mean—’

‘Whoever gets there soonest. That’s the way we’ve always done it.’

‘Oh.’

So they didn’t hire me because of my abilities or prospects.

‘It’s important never to give up,’ said Mr Itadori simply.

Give up at what? I wanted to ask, but swallowed back the question. I wasn’t going to give up. But I knew full well that not giving up didn’t necessarily mean you would succeed.

Mr Itadori didn’t add any more. He just sat there in the passenger seat, quietly staring ahead. I kept quiet, too, and started the car.

I felt I’d given up on quite a lot in my life. Born and raised in a remote mountain village, my family barely scraped by. The benefits that children in towns took for granted rarely came our way, and there were all kinds of things I had to forgo.

But I didn’t find that particularly painful. It doesn’t hurt so much to lose out on things if you never hoped for them in the first place. What really hurts is having things right there in front of you, and wanting them, and not being able to reach them.