Symphony

0. Lights Dim

The Sydney Opera House was alive tonight.

Excited concertgoers flowed through the building, filling its insides with warmth and anticipation. The atmosphere buzzed with a tangible vigor as orchestra members warmed up on stage. A sea of noise, of strings and winds and percussion, swept through the crowd, clearing their minds of everything except for music.

Well, clearing most minds.

Two men in black suits sat together at the very back of the massive concert hall. One was taller, with alert eyes behind his thin, wire-rimmed glasses. His foot nervously tapped to some secret rhythm as he reviewed, again, his plans for this evening.

The other, with darker hair and round, black glasses, sat slightly more slumped in his seat. However, behind his seemingly disconnected expression, his mind was racing. He knew something that the other man didn't. And he wasn't sure how long he could keep it in.

Both wished that they could have sat nearer to the stage—they wanted to feel the presence, the elegance, the power of the music up close—but they also both knew that they had to be watching.

The pair thought they knew what would happen that night.

But they were about to be completely, hopelessly, dangerously surprised.

At exactly 7:00 PM, the lights dimmed on an oblivious crowd. Their whispers were hushed as they looked towards the stage, where the conductor raised his baton to lead the orchestra into their first note.

And so the concert started, just like normal.

But it would never finish.