The young man sat down at the piano and his fingers rippled over the scales. But he was not eager to spend all day one mere scales. Finding a pencil up his sleeve where he had left it after inserting more interesting dynamics into a concerto, he placed it on the piano top in front of him, meticulously lining it up with the edge of the dark polished wood. Then he laid his fingertips over the cool ivory keys, closed his eyes, and let the music flow from his spirit down his nerves to his fingers, which obeyed implicitly and began to play. After improvising for several minutes, the young musician took up his pencil and a piece of scrap paper lying around, and scribbled his notes down. In a few minutes he had the theme and the prelude to his composition, and he paused to take up his flute and play the sequences through. They sounded well. He tried one note a couple of times, not decided whether to sharpen it or not. He worked hard for six hours straight, but he had not decided on that note. He played the whole thing through on the piano, sharpening that note, and the music told a story. The story had not been what he had intended. Indeed, he was not aware how that story had come into his head. It was no memory. Not liking the story the music told, he played it through again, this time emitting the sharp. It was not right. No story, no interest, no meaning. The sharp had to be there. He played it through on the flute, enhancing the sharpened note's presence with a poignant trill, and it was right. He shivered. The music seemed to haunt him like an unremembered memory. Perhaps it was remembered from the future. He shivered again, despite the warmth of the day. He hoped not. He didn't waht Ilsa part of that story. That was the whole point of the piece. Ilsa.