Critics routinely described his work as “hopeful.” Arthur had never corrected them. At the ceremony, the Master of Ceremonies spoke of resilience. Another spoke of courage. A former prime minister called Arthur “a national treasure.”

His old producer whispered, “Smile.” Arthur looked toward the audience. His first guitar teacher was there. His ex-wife. A drummer he’d fired in 1987. Several people who had spent years pretending to like him. And, seated alone in the back row, wearing a charcoal suit no one else seemed to notice, sat Depression. It crossed one leg over the other and nodded politely. Arthur nodded back. When he reached the podium, the applause continued for almost a minute. He unfolded his speech. Then folded it again.

“I’d like to thank my parents,” he began.

“They gave me life.”

A pause.

“I’d like to thank my children.”

“They gave me reasons.”

Another pause.

“I’d like to thank my audiences.”

“They gave me rent.”

The room laughed.

“And finally…”

He looked toward the last row.

“…I’d like to thank Depression.”

The laughter stopped.

“You’ve attended every writing session.”

A few people shifted in their seats.

“You’ve never once arrived late.”

Depression adjusted its cufflinks.

“You’ve cancelled holidays.”

“You’ve interrupted birthdays.”

“You’ve made ordinary Tuesdays feel like archaeological sites.”

The audience had become perfectly still.

“I’ve tried several times to get rid of you.”

Depression smiled faintly.

“I’ve written songs hoping you’d leave.”

“I’ve written songs because you wouldn’t.”

Arthur rested both hands on the podium.

“I don’t recommend you.”

The sentence surprised everyone.

“You’re a terrible travelling companion.”

“You’ve cost me friendships.”

“You’ve frightened people I love.”

“You’ve persuaded me that mirrors are more honest than windows.”

He looked again toward the back.

“But if I’m going to tell the truth…”

Depression looked almost embarrassed.

“…you’ve also refused to let me settle for easy answers.”

The room was silent enough to hear photographers breathing.

“You never wrote a lyric.”

“You never composed a melody.”

“But you insisted I keep looking until I found one worth singing.”

Arthur laughed softly.

“It turns out despair has excellent editorial standards.”

Even Depression smiled at that.

“So thank you.”

“Not because you made me an artist.”

“You didn’t.”

“You simply kept asking questions that happiness was too busy to ask.”

He stepped away from the microphone.

Then returned.

“Oh…”

“I should also thank joy.”

People looked around.

No one named Joy stood up.

Arthur shrugged.

“She couldn’t make it tonight.”

As the applause rose again, he caught one last glimpse of Depression.

The chair in the back row was empty.

Only a program remained.

On its cover someone had written, in careful handwriting,

Congratulations.

Beneath it, in much smaller letters,

I’ll see you when you start the next album.