Chapter 3: Amadeus

"Once again, you come out early," the receptionist observes, her tone measured and neutral, as if she's already grown accustomed to seeing candidates exit before the allotted time.

I can't help but smile, my chest puffing up slightly with a sense of accomplishment. "This time, I think I did fairly well," I reply, the pride in my voice betraying my modesty.

She gives a small nod, a hint of a smile curling at the corners of her lips, but it's a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Oh, I see. A possible talent then," she muses, her gaze lingering on me for a moment before she turns her attention back to the door. "For the third test, you know the way."

As I push the door open, a new challenge reveals itself—a room bathed in soft, muted light, filled with an array of musical instruments. Brass, woodwind, strings—each instrument seems to beckon to me in its own unique voice. The air hums with potential, as though the room itself is alive, pulsing with the promise of something extraordinary.

"Young man," a voice interrupts my reverie, "This test will be in two parts. In the first part, music will be played, and you must replicate it as closely as possible. Afterward, you will create a composition inspired by the music you hear."

"Roger that, sir," I respond, mentally preparing myself.

The first part of the test is grueling. The music echoes in my ears as I try to distinguish the various notes, the instruments, the rhythm. It's not easy. My mind races as I attempt to capture every subtle change—the pitch, the length, the dynamics of each note. I focus on each note, each instrument, struggling to distinguish between the various elements of the music. But it's more than just the instruments—it's the dynamics, the space between each note, the flow of the music itself. It's harder than I anticipated.

The second part of the test feels like an even greater challenge. I'm given three instruments—no more, no less—and told to compose something inspired by the piece I just heard. The pressure is immediate. My mind races again, but this time, I'm forced to create something of my own, something original.

I sit down before the instruments, my fingers hovering over the strings of the guitar, the keys of a piano, and the mouthpiece of a clarinet. I know the clock is ticking. I can feel the weight of it. Forty minutes pass in a blur, and when I finally finish, I'm left with a two-minute composition. It's… it's nothing to write home about. The notes are disjointed, the rhythm uneven. The piece feels like it lacks soul—distant, uninspired.

I head back to the reception desk, exhausted. The receptionist looks up as I approach, her expression still unreadable, as if she's been waiting for me all along.

"You appear to have had more trouble with this test," she says, her tone as neutral as ever, but there's a slight flicker of interest in her eyes, as if she's quietly assessing my performance.

"Ha, yes, ma'am," I reply with a wry smile, trying to mask the frustration that lingers beneath the surface. "But without effort, there's no comfort."

Her gaze lingers on me for a moment, as though she's weighing my words. Finally, she nods, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "Indeed. But the effort is always what counts most."

With those words, she gestures to the door. I turn to face it again, wondering what the next test will bring. The uncertainty of what's to come doesn't seem so daunting now.