There was a musician who wanted to become better. He knew what this required. He would have to stop returning to the things his hands already knew. Familiar music gave him pleasure, but it taught him nothing. If he wanted to grow, he would have to enter less comfortable keys, make different mistakes and endure the humiliation of sounding like a beginner again.

His particular captor was the key of B. B knew everything about him. It knew where his fingers liked to fall, which chords flattered his voice and how to make him feel expressive without requiring him to discover anything. In B, he could play “Your Mama Don’t Dance” almost automatically. He enjoyed playing it, which was the problem. The song had become cloying through repetition, yet it remained available whenever he wanted the easy reassurance of competence.

Each morning he lectured himself. Today, only F-sharp. Or E. Any key but B. He imagined reaching the end of the day transformed, his hands startled into new intelligence. He would resist old habits and become the musician he believed was waiting somewhere beyond them. During daylight hours, the plan seemed entirely reasonable. Then evening arrived. He sat at the piano, touched one innocent note and discovered it was B. The left hand supplied the familiar pattern. The right hand joined in. Within seconds, his mother was not dancing and his father was not playing rock and roll. The whole family had once again been confined to the key of B.

Afterward, he felt ashamed. He had failed to become a better musician for another day. The guilt was disproportionate but sincere. He had not robbed a bank, betrayed a friend or overthrown a small democracy. He had merely played an old song in a familiar key. Yet he understood that habits do not usually arrive looking like prisons. They arrive looking like home. The next morning, he made the promise again. Only F-sharp. Possibly E. No B. B said nothing. It knew he would be back after dinner.