Young violinist, Claire Bergen, lived on the edge of Boissevain. The wind came across the fields like a tired old hymn and nothing rushed, well maybe the clouds. One day, she walked to Mr. Rempel’s farmhouse, the retired schoolteacher and bandleader who people said had “gone a bit strange” after his wife died and he read too much Buddhist poetry. She knocked once, let herself in. He was making tea.

“I hate myself,” she said. “I hate how I play. I hate the sound of my bow. I’ve practised for years and I’m still just… mediocre.”

Mr. Rempel handed her a chipped mug and didn’t speak. “I want to stop being this violin failure. I want to stop being me.” He pointed at the tea.

“Drink.” She did. “Now give me back the tea,” he said.

She looked at him. “I can’t. I drank it.”

“Exactly,” he said. “No tea, no cup. No self, no shame.”

She frowned. “But I’m a violinist. That’s who I am.”

“Then go find one who plays,” he said, and turned to watch the birds in the snow.

A week later, she returned to the farmhouse. Mr. Rempel was shoveling the walk. “Well?” he asked.

“I left the violin in its case for three days, then opened it without a plan. I forgot what I was trying to fix.“ said Claire.

He leaned on the shovel. “That’s good. Proud of you.”

From then on, when the old doubt crept in again, Claire would whisper to the windbreak, “Who is playing?” No one answered. Only the prairie wind, and the music.