The gallery was small, near the Black Sheep Inn. Not much more than a room with windows, above a bakery in Wakefield, Quebec. Word had spread: a retrospective of Jay Baillergeon, who never sold a canvas in his life but had played mandolin like a raccoon rifling through snacks, clever and slightly chaotic. Kurt painted alongside Jay in years past and played mandolin in the same old-time band, recordings no one put aside to enjoy in later years. Now Jay was gone. Cancer, but he left behind paintings and some tunes.

The gallery was quiet. People came and went. The walls were hung with horizon lines that trailed off, a boot on a porch, a barn dissolving in fog and in the corner a battered mandolin. A small speaker played one of Jay’s old recordings, in D minor. A reel slowed to half its speed. Kurt stood before a canvas titled “Last Chord” which was nothing but a grey field with one diagonal line. It looked off-center, like a string waiting to be plucked. A young woman approached him.
“Did you know Jay?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of painter was he?”
Kurt looked up like trying to recall a shopping list.
“What about his mandolin playing?” she asked, “they say he was a genius.”
Kurt answered. “He was unique. He just listened for the note that was already there.”
The woman blinked.
“So… what made him great?”
Kurt looked again at the diagonal line on the canvas.
“He knew when not to finish.”
After a moment, Kurt walked to the mandolin case. The label said, Do not touch. He bowed slightly toward it. Then he left.

That evening, back in his apartment, Kurt tuned his own mandolin. He played a tune he and Jay wrote long ago and stopped just before it resolved.
He let the last note hang.
Then he smiled, and poured himself a cup of tea.