“But choosing music because everyone told you that you were special is a terrible reason.”
“So quit?”
“If you want.”
That answer irritated him enough to stay another semester.
By the end, he knew.
He wanted music.
Not specialness.
Music.
That distinction saved him.
At twenty-two, Malik graduated.
No record deal.
No immediate composer career.
He worked.
Accompanist.
Church pianist.
Assistant music director for a youth theater.
Part-time audio editor.
Wedding gigs.
Station events.
Ironically.
Every few months someone recognized him from the old video.
“You’re the station kid.”
He hated that at twenty-two.
By twenty-seven, he found it funny.
He began writing music for small theater productions.
Then regional television.
Then documentaries.
Not famous.
Working.
That mattered more.
His father retired at sixty-two.
Malik threw a party.
Darius complained.
“I said no speeches.”
“There will be speeches.”
“I raised a tyrant.”
“Genetic.”
At the party, Malik played Southbound, 7:03.
First time in years.
The piece sounded young.
Because it was.
He considered improving it.
Did not.
Some music should remain the age it was written.
Darius listened.
Then said:
“You still rush the middle.”
Malik stared.
“Ms. Foster told you to say that.”
“No.”
“She was right though.”
Malik laughed.
Nadine, now in her seventies, shouted from the back:
“THANK YOU.”
Everyone laughed.
Years later, the Philadelphia Arts Partnership invited Malik to join an education advisory committee.
He almost declined.
Committees.
Emails.
Meetings.
Then remembered the station.
He accepted.
Walter Bellamy was gone by then.
Retired.
Jonathan Pierce remained an honorary board member but rarely attended.
At Malik’s second meeting, the staff discussed a youth performance program.
A board member asked:
“How do we identify high-potential kids?”
Malik immediately disliked the phrase.
“Why?”
The woman frowned.
“What?”
“Why high-potential?”
“For scholarships.”
“That makes sense.”
“But for public performance space?”
She looked confused.
Malik continued.
“If the station piano is public, why are we only designing programs around children already labeled exceptional?”
Another staff member said:
“We need quality.”
“Sure.”
“For scheduled concerts.”
“But what about open workshops?”
“Beginner hours?”
“Improvisation sessions?”
“Kids who just want to touch a piano without auditioning?”
Silence.
Then someone smiled.
“That sounds personal.”
Malik nodded.
“Yes.”
Good.
No pretending.
The program expanded.
Not because one story fixed an institution.
Because someone who remembered standing beside a piano asked a different question.
Beginner workshops became popular.
Surprisingly popular.
Parents liked low-stakes entry.
Kids tried piano without signing up for a year of lessons.
Some quit after ten minutes.
Fine.
One child discovered drums instead.
Another preferred drawing.
No hidden talent required.
Jonathan attended the launch.
Older now.
Seventy-two.
He recognized Malik immediately.
“Southbound.”
Malik smiled.
“Still remembered.”
“Unfortunately for both of us.”
Jonathan laughed.