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Hearing the door opening, I turn just in time to see that we’re to be joined by one of Joshua Glass’s relentlessly energetic young assistants. She seems like a nice-enough girl, although I fail to understand how someone of her tender age could possibly be useful.

“Hi,” she says, sounding a little breathless, “I just wanted to see how things are going.” She steps past me, clearly more interested in Giancarlo. “Are you ready to go back on?”

“Do I look ready to go back on?” he snarls.

“Perhaps you can send someone on in his place for now,” I suggest diplomatically, lowering my sunglasses for a moment so that the nice young lady can see my eyes. “I’m sure you can find a willing substitute.”

“We sort of tried,” she replies tentatively. “Um, the problem is…”

Her voice trails off.

“The problem I what?” I ask.

“We tried to send Mr. Mehuen on,” she explains, “the pianist. Only, he got about two minutes in and then…”

I wait, but she seems almost too shocked to go on.

“He couldn’t play either,” she says finally. “The same thing happened. It was like the music just… ran out.”

“Ran out?” I say, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“What nonsense are you going on about?” Giancarlo spits back at her. “The music ran out? What does that even mean?”

“It means the piano stopped making noises,” she says. “He hit the keys, but all that came out was a series of little bumps and thuds. We switched to another piano, and the same thing happened. Then we tried to get the jazz band on, and they couldn’t play either.” She pauses for a moment, as if she can scarcely believe what she’s saying. “The crazy thing is, there are reports online about it happening in other places, too. All around the world.”

“Music is just… not working?” I say incredulously.

“Mr. Glass is getting agitated,” she replies. “I don’t know what we’re going to do if we can’t get the concert going again. He’s got a lot of very important guests here, and I think he’s starting to feel embarrassed. Tonight was supposed to be the big launch of his new satellite network. Now he’s got no music, and his pregnant wife is apparently trying to leave.”

“Mr. Glass is certainly the real victim in all of this,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, before heading over to Giancarlo. “Please, old friend. Let me try to play it.”

“How would—”

“Just let me try,” I continue. “I’m no virtuoso, but I at least know how to make a few semi-decent sounds.”

He hesitates, and then he hands me the violin. I set it into position, and then I carefully draw the box across the strings, only to find that no sound emerges. I try several more times, before lowering the violin in defeat.

“See?” the assistant says. “People are reporting the same thing all over the world. Music has just… stopped happening.”

“Don’t talk such garbage,” Giancarlo says, turning to her and clearly fuming with anger. “What do you know about music? Nothing! You’re just a child! Meanwhile, I’m one of the world’s greatest classical musicians and suddenly I find myself reduced to the level of an amateur! Not even that!”

“I’m sorry,” she replies plaintively, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You couldn’t offend me if you tried,” he says, before taking the violin and bow back from me. “The most you can manage is some mild irritation.” He attempts once more to play, and then he begins muttering to himself as he turns and walks away, still futilely sliding the bow back and forth across the strings.

“It would seem that something rather unusual is happening,” I say to the assistant.

“All I know,” she replies, “is that if someone doesn’t get out there and play soon, Mr. Glass is going to be really angry.” She pauses. “You don’t happen to play anything, do you?”

“Well, I’m—”

Stopping suddenly, I realize that this young lady was probably not even born when I had my top ten hit. I suppose I could explain, but I’ve done that to so many people over the years and I’m rather tired of their blank faces. Besides, I left my guitar at home and I’d prefer not to play on an unfamiliar instrument. On top of even that, I have a niggling worry that perhaps I too shall find that I can’t play. The guitar has been my constant companion, my only true friend in life, and the thought of being abandoned by music is enough to fill me with fear.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” I tell the girl, as a feeling of unease begins to spread through my chest. “I rather think we shall all have to wait and see what—”

Before I can finish, I hear the most terrible crashing sound over my shoulder. The girl and I both turn just in time to see Giancarlo smashes his violin against the wall. The poor man is shouting at the same time, as if the inability to play has driven him to the brink of insanity.

Three

It’s late by the time I get back to my apartment. The buses around here are notoriously unreliable, and the walk across the unlit estate leaves my tired old legs feeling rather achey. Still, I don’t really mind the delay, since I am worried about something I must do when I get home.

I’m worried that perhaps I too shall find that I can no longer play my instrument.

I have one of those modern mobile telephones that allows one to access the internet, so I decide to check the news as I walk. Indeed, the assistant at the concert was correct when she said that the whole world seems to have been gripped by this sudden inability to create music. I read several news reports about concerts that have been canceled because musicians and singers found themselves unable to perform. Amateurs at home are reporting the same problems, and it seems that even recorded music is failing to play. Several times, reports mention the same nonsensical phrase, suggesting that ‘the world has run out of music.’”

As I unlock the door to my building, I see that young Sarah is sitting in her usual spot on the stairs.

“Good evening,” I say, and I must admit that I’m slightly relieved to see that she’s holding her guitar. Taking off my sunglasses, I offer her a friendly smile. “Are you one of the few people who can still string a piece of music together.”

“It’s fading,” she replies, ashen-faced.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Listen.”

She starts playing. Sarah is a good musician. At only nineteen years of age, she has been taking free lessons from me, and she studies hard. As she plays now, however, I cannot help but notice that the sound is weaker somehow, as if Sarah is struggling to make herself heard.

“You need to play out more,” I tell her.

“I am.”

“More.”

“I am!”

Indeed, I can see from the movement of her fingers that she seems to be playing with plenty of gusto. As I step closer, however, it’s clear that for some reason the sound is struggling to come out.

“It’s not just playing, either,” she explains, with fear in her voice. “I can’t hear the music properly in my head, either. And I can’t sing.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean it’s fading away,” she says earnestly, before stopping and lowering the guitar onto her lap. “I don’t understand, Derek. How can this be happening? Music’s everywhere. The instruments still work, I haven’t forgotten how to play, but it’s as if I can feel it running out. I’m certain that, if I keep playing, I’ll soon lose the ability altogether.”

“That’s quite impossible,” I reply, although I can’t shake a hint of concern myself.

She lifts the guitar, as if she means to play again, but then she hesitates.