Mia's heart was a clenched fist as she approached the audition room. Three years of piano lessons, countless hours of practice, and her dreams of attending the conservatory all balanced on this single afternoon. The hallway stretched before her like an accusation, each step echoing her doubts.
Through the door, she could hear the previous candidate--flawless arpeggios cascading like water over stones. Mia's hands, usually so reliable, had become strangers. She flexed her fingers, willing them to remember the muscle memory they'd developed over thousands of repetitions.
"Mia Chen?" A voice called her name, and suddenly her legs were lead, her breath a trapped bird beating against her ribs.
The walk to the piano was a journey through molasses. Three judges sat like statues, their faces carved from expectation. Mia settled onto the bench, the cool wood a small anchor in her churning sea of nerves.
She placed her fingers on the keys. For a moment, silence reigned--a held breath before the plunge. Then the first note emerged, and something shifted. The music became a river, and she was no longer fighting the current but riding it. Her fear dissolved into the melody, transforming into something beautiful.
When the final chord faded, the room remained silent. Then one judge leaned forward, and Mia saw it: the smallest flicker of a smile, a candle lit against her darkness of doubt.