The rehearsal room at the community arts centre smelled of winter boots and varnish. Fluorescent lights hummed. Joe, nineteen and on fire, attacked a run of notes like enemies on a firing range. Every sound was fast and unapologetic. Across the room sat Moira. She watched with patience that came from years of letting people exhaust themselves before saying anything. Finally he stopped, she nodded at the air.

“Again?” he asked. “Slower? Cleaner?”

“No,” she said. “Sit.”

He blinked.

“You think music lives in your fingers,” she said. “But the fingers only deliver the message.”

Joe frowned. “My technique’s bad?”

“Your technique is fine,” she said. “Once upon a time,” Moira continued, “I thought I could shortcut my way to greatness. Practise harder than everyone else. Louder, faster. Music was a mountain you climb by sheer stubbornness. But that isn’t what mountains care about.”

Joe shifted, feeling the conversation drift into territory he had not signed up for.

“I had a teacher then,” she said. “A quiet man. He spoke in riddles. He said ‘A great musician is just a great person with an instrument.’ I thought he was dodging my questions. I wanted scales; he gave philosophy.”

Joe laughed in a small way.

“He was right,” she said. “Greatness doesn’t comes from what kind of person you are when no one’s listening.” She tapped her chest. “If you don’t have room in here, neither does the music.”

Joe looked at his hands.

“So what do I need?” he asked cautiously.

“Yo become someone the music trusts,” Moira said. “Who won’t use it to win arguments.”

Moira moved to the window where outside, the snowfall turned streetlights into halos.

“Try something,” she said without looking back. “Put the instrument down for a day. Help someone who can’t repay you. Apologize to someone you’ve avoided. Listen to someone whose voice you usually talk over. Then come back and play the same passage.”

Joe nodded, but he didn’t fully understand. He changed teachers. Later obtained a job at SOCAN in member services.