In Thunder Bay, where Lake Superior broods like a secret no one can name, there was once a man called Mr. Frosinone, who played harmonica every Thursday outside Robins Donuts on Arthur Street. He sat by the window with a black coffee and a weathered harmonica pouch that looked older than Robert Johnson’s crossroads contract. He never busked, never spoke much, never took requests. He would simply wait until the place was almost empty, then play a tune that made truckers stop mid-bite and students forget their headphones were still on. They said he once played for Hank Snow, or maybe it was Anne Murray. Others swore he had studied in Chicago with the bluesmen or lived for a time in a cabin on Sleeping Giant, playing to wind. One autumn, a young music student, Jordy McLeod, came from Toronto. His backpack full of chromatics, effects pedals, and praise from professors. He sat across from Frosinone.

“I’ve learned every scale, every trick. But people don’t really listen when I play. I want to know what you know.”

Mr. Frosinone stirred his coffee.

“Play me something,” he said.

Jordy played a blistering blues riff, followed by a reel, a jazz lick, and a classical prelude, all in under a minute.

When he finished, Mr. Frosinone nodded.

“You’re very fast,” he said.

“Thanks,” Jordy replied.

“But you’re not there.”

“What do you mean?”

Mr. Frosinone pointed out the window at the bay.

“The Sleeping Giant doesn’t move an inch. Been lying there forever. Still, people come from across the world just to look.”

Jordy looked down at his hands.

“So… what should I play?”

Mr. Frosinone picked up his harmonica, drew in a breath, and played a single trembling note that sounded like a screen door opening in July. A waitress stopped wiping tables. Someone at the counter sighed.

“Play what stays,” said Mr. Frosinone. “Not what dazzles.”

And then he went back to his coffee, as if nothing at all had happened.