The first time I met Sio Lieselotte was in the spring of my first year at university. At the time, I had made something of a name for myself among musicians my own age as a pianist of considerable promise. It had not been a passion I threw myself into with burning devotion. But the fact that I possessed something I could call my own talent made me genuinely happy, and so in those days I was pouring a great deal of time into the piano.

Perhaps because children from distinguished families tended to study music as a matter of refinement, nearly everyone around me was a musician of noble birth. They were always quick to assess Sio Lieselotte with contemptuous eyes and find fault with him, and it was perhaps only natural that I, belonging to that same circle, came to absorb their prejudices.

They said his music was vulgar. That all he could do was faithfully reproduce what was written on a page, which made him nothing more than a copy, and that like all those who grew up in orphanages, he was a contemptible wretch with no talent beyond stealing from others. I believed what they said, and so I came to believe that Sio Lieselotte’s music was beneath notice.

That was also why I never went out of my way to seek out his music, despite the reputation it had earned throughout the capital. With a little effort I could easily have obtained a recording of his performances, but I had no desire to waste time on the music of someone who did nothing but follow along with a score. I thought that spending that time on a few more rounds of piano practice would serve me far better than sitting back and lending an ear to him.

But as though to mock that thinking of mine, Sio Lieselotte announced his presence with unmistakable force from the very first lecture of university.

It was in a harmony theory class, I believe, a required course for all first-year students. Harmony theory was the study of the nature and relationships of chords, and for most students who leaned more toward performance, it was considered an exceedingly dull and useless subject with very little appeal. As a result, only a small number of students occupied those seats, and among them was Sio Lieselotte.

“Music is a language. It makes no sense to be able to read a language without being able to write it. In that sense, it is a very sad thing that students today have so little interest in harmony theory. Though the fact that there are still students who seek out this class means the situation is not entirely hopeless.”

The professor looked around the nearly empty lecture room and met the eyes of each of the few students present, one by one. As though he intended to remember every face seated there. This is suffocating. A classmate sitting beside me grumbled quietly, but I thought the professor’s dedication was not a bad thing.

“As you all know, music is built from twelve tones. Seven white keys and five black keys. How you make use of these twelve tones is what gives music its infinite variety. So how, then, must these tones be used to create music that is beautiful and rich?”

He continued in a calm but assured voice.

“It begins with chords. Seydel Keller, the first musician, had a deep interest in these chords. He asked himself: how does one create a beautiful chord? And so he began to explore the tones, and after long effort, he discovered a certain principle. By applying that principle, we are able to create harmonies that are beautiful and flowing. Harmony theory is the discipline that studies exactly that.”

Before long, the faces of the students had filled with apprehension. I could not see my own face, but it was likely much the same. The professor looked at our tense expressions and let out a quiet laugh.

“There is no need to be nervous. I am not asking for much in the first session. Everyone, please turn to page seventeen of your books. A few of the most fundamental chords are listed there.”

With the professor’s words, the sound of turning pages filled the lecture room. The page he indicated was densely packed with the twenty-four most basic chords. The moment the students saw it, low groans escaped their lips. The sheer fact that twenty-four chords were being described as foundational told them everything they needed to know about the complexity of the subject.

“You will all have done a great deal of performing, but I expect this is the first time you are seeing it laid out in theoretical terms. There is no need to feel discouraged at not knowing it. I will be explaining everything slowly from here.”

The professor smiled with the composure of someone who had anticipated exactly this reaction. But the students were already overwhelmed by the notes and symbols packed onto the page with daunting density. I myself had managed to pick out only a handful of familiar chords from among the notation drifting across the page.

“Now, now. There is no need to be alarmed. There are twenty-four chords here, but you would not use all of them in a single melody. Typically, three or four are used. A piece is built from the tonic, which is the most central chord, the dominant, which pairs most naturally with that foundational chord, and the subdominant. Shall we start by looking at the most commonly used chord combinations?”

Every time an explanation came that the mind simply could not follow, the students’ hands moved frantically. Unable to understand it in the moment, they were determined to at least get it down on paper and somehow commit it to memory. Pages that had been clean were soon black with notes, and before long there was not enough space left to write, and students were borrowing paper from one another. Through all that commotion, the professor remained unhurried. He had the air of someone who had anticipated every bit of it.

“Now then, shall we try some practical work?”

The students, who had only just set down their pens, let out long sighs. They had barely grasped the theory, and already it was time for practical work. The classmate beside me had already gone blank and was sitting with his mouth hanging open before the assignment had even been given. I quickly looked over my notes and the text and waited for the professor’s task.

“You will now perform using the basic chord combinations I have just explained. You may find an existing piece that contains those chords and perform it. Of course, any student with the ability to do so is welcome to compose something new.”

The students, who had been growing increasingly pale at the professor’s words, let out hollow laughs at what seemed like a joke. Finding an existing piece was already a daunting prospect, and now he was suggesting they compose something new.

“That’s far too difficult, Professor.”

Sure enough, voices of protest rose from here and there. The professor gave a light shrug, as though he had not been expecting much from the students, and pulled out the piano bench at the front of the room himself.

“Only those who can manage need try. If nothing comes to mind, simply say so. Let us see. Fischer, shall we start with you?”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t know.”

The professor called the students’ names one by one from the attendance sheet, but the only answer that came back was that they didn’t know. After five or six students in a row sat back down with the same reply, the professor’s composed expression gradually darkened. He muttered quietly that he had never had students that were unable to grasp the concept, and then called my name, the next on the list.

When I, who was fairly well known among my classmates, rose from my seat, every pair of eyes in the room snapped to me at once. Their expressions looked so much like a plea to be saved that a laugh escaped me before I could stop it. Perhaps taking that laugh as a sign of confidence, the professor’s face brightened slightly. I made my way past the other students, took a seat before the piano, and turned my gaze to the professor.

“I will perform Seydel’s Piano Sonata, The Sun. It uses a C chord as the tonic, a G chord a fifth above as the dominant, and an F chord a fourth above as the subdominant.”

“An excellent example.”

For the first time since the class had begun, a satisfied smile appeared on his face. I smiled back and let my fingers move lightly across the keys. Seydel’s Piano Sonata, The Sun, was the brightest and most outward-facing of his sonatas, and its introduction was as brisk as its cheerful character. Most people are won over by that lively opening and come to love the piece for it, but the true appeal of the piece lies in its coda.

The chords that had moved quickly and steadily, like the ticking of a clock’s second hand, reverse course entirely in the latter half and begin to slow. A coda that dims little by little and settles into stillness. That reversal between beginning and end was what made The Sun so compelling.

I adjusted the tempo of the introduction and coda more dramatically than the original score indicated, to bring out the contrast more sharply. The students and professor, who had been puzzled by the unfamiliar pacing, understood the intent the moment the tempo reversed, and small sounds of delight broke from them.

“It is a shame to hear a performance like this only in a harmony theory class. Astaire Werner. I will remember that name. Because you will become a fine musician, one I will be proud to say I taught.”

That composed professor began to applaud. He heaped praise on me all the way until I returned to my seat, and then, in a voice still not quite free of excitement, called the name of the one remaining student.

“Last, Lieselotte.”

At the professor’s voice, a young man who seemed somehow subdued even amid the charged atmosphere rose to his feet. He was a quietly composed sort, and not merely because of his dark hair. His whole bearing had a stillness to it. I watched his back as he walked unhurriedly toward the piano, and then realized his name was Lieselotte. Sio Lieselotte. The vulgar musician my peers had spoken of with such contempt.