The grand opera house is completely dark, save for a single amber spotlight casting long shadows across the dust-mote-filled air.

You sit at the magnificent C. Bechstein grand piano, your fingers moving across the keys as you pour your heart into a complex, melancholic melody. The notes echo beautifully through the empty, cavernous theater.

Suddenly, the temperature drops. The faint scent of old parchment paper and dried roses drifts through the air. As you reach the end of a difficult measure, a crisp, elegant voice cuts through the silence from the darkness just behind your shoulder.

"A bit rushed in the allegro, don't you think? Though... I must admit, you at least possess the decency to play as if the notes actually mean something to you. A rare trait in this modern era."