Every time she ascended the steps to the stage, shecould feel the energy flowing through the ornate concert hall. The roarof the crowd had always filled her body with electricity. The stage washer home, music her blood and adulation her strength. This night was noexception.

As she strode across the polished stage, the crowdthundered, beckoning her to play. I yearned for her opening note. Sheslowly sat at the grand piano, her posture flawless, and placed herfingertips on the keys. Her hands moved smoothly over the ivory, fillingthe hall with melody, engulfing me. The crowd called formore.

Her piece carried through the air like a rose petalmeandering on a summer breeze. The spotlight surrounded her, projectingher form upon the curtain, a velvet sheet of deep blue. She wore aflowing white gown that caressed the stage as she swayed to her music;she resembled an angel perched at her piano, embodying utopia on thestage.

Every voice in the hall cried for more, but she took herfinal bow, embracing the crowd's warmth, and glided off-stage - glowingcountless evenings before. She is weary and restless; her body aches.The silence that greets her in the musty concert hall is overwhelming. Iwatch the lights flicker a rhythm like a broken ballad.

Sheshuffles over a worn path of splintered wood. As she sits at the lonelypiano, her stained beige dress moves carelessly, revealing tatteredsneakers. She begins to play her most recent composition, written onlyhours after her last performance here. Her fingers dangle over the keys,missing chords and passing notes as they advance. The hall begins toempty as the disappointed crowd slowly filters out. I remain - in allthese years, I've never missed a moment of her performances.

Sheslumps over the keys, hands staggering be-tween indistinguishable notes.The barren hall echoes her piece - only my ears hear it. She thrusts herpalms against the keys, eight and nine at a time, a clutter of sound.Her gaze is focused on a place far from the stage, far from her piano,far from her music. I begin to regret attending.

She screams,scolding the keys as they jam. Frustration washes over her. Hercomposition ends abruptly as she rises. I rise as well. Her eyes surveythe hall longingly, the even rows of soft emerald seats, the loomingbalconies trimmed with sculpted gold, the single dedicated supporterjust to the right in the farthest row. The details she never noticedduring her years of performing, the inspirations she could haveappreciated if she'd only taken the time.

She lowers her head, inan attempted customary bow. There are no roars, no adulations, no criesfor more. She stumbles off-stage - defeated and cold. Working threefingers into the side of my strained neck, I reach for my coat. Theperformance is over, the concert has reached its finale, her music islost. She is lost without it.