One Tuesday, a new student named Mira arrived. She was seventeen, wore combat boots, and clutched a tablet.

And there, in the center of the Minuet in G, a perfect brown halo. A coffee stain shaped like a treble clef.

And the little studio above the laundromat finally learned to swing.

He took the printout. The pages were warm, slightly damp, and the margins were filled with Mira’s chaotic, beautiful annotations: “LOUDER HERE,” “angry??,” “this part sounds like my cat falling off the bed.”