No need to call them. She had once thought that music had died within her, but now she knew it had only been locked away. And today, the look from a student named Reynolds didn't hurt her. It only unlocked the lid she had kept shut for three decades. She was no longer the 10-year-old girl at the bar.
Nor was she the CEO behind hundreds of inspiring speeches. She was someone who had never heard her own music and would not let the rest of her life continue in silence. Monica sat at the last row of the auditorium after leaving the stage, her hands clasped together on her lap, her eyes fixed on the piano now obscured. By the drawn curtains. She didn't leave, not because she hadn't yet, but because she didn't want to.
For the first time in many years, she didn't feel the need to go anywhere. The sound of footsteps echoed again, but this time it wasn't the self assured click of Blake Reynolds's leather shoes, but the steady, sure steps, familiar like. The heartbeat of a century. Jordan Lee, the young security officer, appeared quietly, like how a piece of music enters your heart. No introduction needed.
He sat down beside her, not looking directly at Monica, but following her gaze to where the piano stood. Do you know what tomorrow is? She smiled faintly, her voice after the emotionally charged morning. Saturday. Jordan chuckled, then shook his head.
The Witmore Invitational qualifiers, 9:00 a.m. In this auditorium. Monica turned to look at him for the first time since sitting down. There was no doubt in her eyes, only something hard to name, like hope, but deluded with the weariness of someone too familiar with living without dreams. "And what do I have to do with that?"
Jordan pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his jacket. He unfolded it, smoothing the creases, and placed it in her hand. A wild card application, a slot reserved for amateur artists to be submitted directly before 6:00 p.m. Today. I think you should submit it.
Monica looked at the paper, then back at Jordan, her eyes almost still. I'm a nearly 50year-old CEO. I never studied music formally. I don't have a mentor. No sheet music.
What would I play? A fragment from my 10-year-old memory. Jordan didn't answer immediately. He leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee, his eyes still fixed on the stage. You play like each note is a scar being strummed again.