Symphonies in E Minor

Chapter Five: The Exercises

The set up of the bar, kitchen, seating, and stage doesn't look too different than what he remembers. When he begins thinking about how the restaurant looked years ago, he suddenly remembers what this place meant to him.

He imagines his younger self standing in this restaurant for the first time since arriving in Manchester, having been just bestowed with his new estate. He recalls coming in after hours, running his hands along the top of the piano. He plays a single note. C sharp. It echoes throughout the room, making goosebumps spread over his arms and the back of his neck. The excitement sharply runs through him, the thrill of being in control for once in his life. The rush of blood in his ears. The seats, he imagines, are empty, but he can easily count over a hundred seats. One hundred people listening to his music with delight. Or horror. It doesn't matter which one. It'll be his masterpiece whether they think it's one or not. He'll have a name to call his own.

Returning back to the present, he wishes he could stand there and use that nostalgic emotion to fuel his inspiration. His younger self may have been easily influenced positively, but the opposite happens now. There is a full house tonight, and it's clear that they're eagerly waiting on the next piece to be played. He, however, feels himself dreading it.

The piece begins. A lanky man with long limbs begins playing. Harry recognizes him as the man he sold his license to. A Spring Evening.

Harry scans the crowd, appalled at himself for looking for the satisfied looks on people's faces. He's never craved approval from anyone, so why does he react to the smiles on people's features with hope blooming in his chest. Have they decided to shun him, but love his creations?

He's always tried to limit the distinctions between himself and his music because it's his outlet. His therapy. He's always wanting it to be known that he is his own music, everything the notes embody. Sitting there, he realizes that it'll never be possible. They can love his music, but will they love him? Is this the case with all his listeners? They will clap for the music, but not for him.

Except perhaps Aaliyah Kincaid.

Despite their lack of relationship, Harry knows that she'd clap for both of them. He's not sure how he feels about it.

It was all a lie, he wants to tell everyone sitting there ignoring him. Everything Emilia said was a lie.

He should have brought a companion with him. Faiz and Ruhina maybe. Would they have come? Something tells him they absolutely would, but shame joins the hope in his chest. Harry will never be the one to reach out, too desperate to hide away from real conversation and people.

Aaliyah would come. Though she's a stranger, she would enjoy coming here with him, so she could ridicule the player more vehemently than she would do alone.

Harry stands, hearing enough of the music. They sound like notes put together, with no emotion behind them. The player is stone faced, his wrists stiff. There's no love behind the melancholic music being played.

He scans the crowd one more time thinking he'll see her there. She's not there.

He'll see her tomorrow. See that blinding light in her eyes. See that wide smile on her face. Hear her nonstop jabber. Lord, that woman talks a ridiculous amount. Not only that, but she also speaks fast, sometimes replacing English words with what he assumes is Gaelic. He doesn't always understand what she's saying, but the manner in which she says anything grabs his attention. If Faiz talked his ear off like that, he'd scold him, but Aaliyah is passionate in a different way. She loves life and loves talking about life.

She doesn't know about him or his past. Similarly, he doesn't know about hers. The mystery of it all is attractive. Perhaps this alliance will be slightly different.