“Music is the biggest lie we tell ourselves. We sell our music like we sell our bodies, booking the other person’s interest to the degree we have sway over them. The music of life has all kinds of tunes and melodies. When you learn how to listen, you can learn how to play.

  “The city of Moon Night is known as one of the most musically inclined and artistic cities. In its perpetual state of night, musicians from all over the world come to play, create, and compose such massive works that you can’t find a single street corner that isn’t thrumming with a tune.

  “There are haunting melodies from Gothic balconies down Interlude Avenue and all kinds of depressive and oppressive music up and down each street. In one coffee shop, a man is composing elevator music, in another, a woman is composing mariachi music. The horror. Down by the town square near the chapel, you can hear all kinds of joyful ballads. Some of them even align in rows to make choir songs. Charming.

  “The rooftops are saved for painters, parks are reserved for acrobats and street performers, but the theater is welcome to all. The mayor of Moon Night City holds a weekly talent tournament there. Artists from all categories, stations, livelihoods, and people groups come to enter this. To display such talent in front of the mayor could earn you respect and fame, not to mention the fortune of finding yourself sponsored. To never have to worry about food or shelter, but only to inspire and create, is the dream of every artist—at least those with longevity in mind.

  “However, the mayor hadn’t chosen anyone in six tournaments. Nothing ever caught his eye, it seemed. No peddler’s charms, no songbird’s song, no lavish art piece, no double-jointed jig. No, it seemed the mayor could not find anyone worthy. From his window, you could hear the mayor cry. Oh, such bitter tears.

  “It seemed that even the city’s hope was falling. Though the city was of no concern to mine. No, not at that time. The city of perpetual midnight had nothing to do with me, and I had nothing to do with it. I ran a small bar by the theater, underground in a basement.

  “It wasn’t much to write about. It wasn’t brimming with inspiration, but it had character. It had the smell of old wood and good leather chairs. The ceiling fan worked its wonder, pushing the room’s air along, keeping a perpetual temperature. Still, to this day, I’m not sure how it did it.

  “The bar was stained, chipped, and scratched, but she was mine. She was battered and bruised but full of stories. Behind the bar stood green and blue rows of different colored bottles, starting from lowest to highest price on three racks. Cheap wines and simple liquors littered the bottom row.

  “I worked behind the counter. I was a broad-shouldered man of average height with black hair, and I often wore a simple black apron over my dark blue shirt and jeans. That particular day, my hands mindlessly cleaned the glasses rhythmically as I was lost in thought in a room lost to the city.

  “That night, though, I had a patron. She was beautiful, with long black hair and piercing green eyes, skin gray as ash, freckles lining her nose. Her frame was a beautiful hourglass. She walked down the steps with sultry but hesitant care. Her eyes locked on mine, but I quickly looked away. My eyes, I hate my eyes. They’re my father’s eyes, hot and angry, and not good for business.

  “Quickly working behind the bar, I set the glasses in their appointed spots. The woman slid herself onto one of my chairs slowly, as if trying not to startle an animal. I guess I was the animal.

  “She was like me. She was like you.

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  “She sat there for a moment, quietly breathing. I reconstituted myself and grabbed a glass.

  “‘What can I do for ya?’ I asked, my voice hoarse from lack of use. I never had a pretty voice like the poets upstairs, but to my surprise, she wasn’t startled.

  “‘Whiskey, neat,’ she said distractedly. Her voice was gentle but true, if a voice could ever be true. In this city, there were stories and songs of truth, but never actual truth. There I go again, reading into things. I shook my head slightly and tried to sound casual.

  “‘Whiskey neat, coming right up. What brings you down here?’ I asked, my hand grabbing the bottle, turning to face her before pouring. To my surprise, she hadn’t looked up from her spot. It was as if she was staring new holes into the counter.

  “‘I don’t remember. There was this voice; he called out something. Like a dream in the corner of my mind I can’t seem to bring to the front,’ she said, confusion and longing in her voice. There it was again, though. Her voice held that trueness of tone. It was as if she spoke without ever lying. She was a foreigner in this place, a voice of light in a dingy basement bar. She wasn’t supposed to be here.

  “‘You don’t remember?’ I continued, trying to keep the conversation going. ‘So you pick a bar? Sorry, not trying to sound ungrateful. It’s just we don’t see a lot of customers.’ My tone tried to be less aggressive and accusatory. In the end, I wasn’t very successful. However, she was unfazed.

  In fact, her eyes never left the bar, even when I presented her whiskey neat. She stared at that wood for a long moment. Then, picking up her drink, she began to sip slowly.

  “‘I need more than just whiskey. I need history, context, and clues.’

  “This girl was crazy, but ordinary people rarely show up at my bar. I sighed while picking up a refresher for her glass.

  “‘I heard a rumor that you could find things. Is that true?’ she said, not at all sounding like a question but more of a statement.

  “‘That’s right; my art is suited for tracking any person, place, or thing,’ I said, eyebrow cocked.

  “‘I need to hire your services then,’ she said, staring at her glass, her mouth trying to find the words.

  “‘You see, I seem to have lost my memories. I want your help and your protection tracking them down," she said, sipping her drink, her eyes not meeting mine. Was she trying to pull a prank on me? As God is my witness, the front door slammed open just then.

  “‘Wolf,’ a familiar voice cried out my name. Stumbling down the stairs was a lanky man with a wiry frame—my old friend Bojangles. I call him Bo.

  “His short brown hair was drenched from the rain, and his beady brown eyes scanned the room, locking on me, and then on the back of the head of my only patron. Catching his breath, he reconstituted himself before speaking.

  “‘Wolf, buddy, we have a problem.’

  “He looked back at the girl and then at me.

  “‘For God’s sake, Bo, just spit it out,’ I said.

  “‘Fine, it’s not like the whole town isn’t gonna find out soon enough anyway,’ he said with a shrug, still catching the tail end of his breath. ‘Wolf, listen, the word on the street is that the missing sheet music written by Joy has been found!’

  “I froze in my spot. Joy and the other Nine Muses founded this city. Their work is rumored to have built the city itself, and their art is some of the most prized artifacts. People have fought and killed to have a simple glimpse of their works. Most of them have been lost, but this...

  “‘I’m thinking,’ Bo continued, ‘that if we get this song made by Joy ourselves, we could perform it in front of the mayor. Then we wouldn’t have to do any more back-alley dealings or’—Bo looked at the back of the patron, considering his next words— ‘unsavory business.’ Bo seemed pleased with that. “We could go legitimate.”

  “I stood there, my mind racing, but the girl spoke up before I could say anything.

  “‘What is this piece of music?’ said the girl.

  “‘Music? It isn’t just music!’ Bojangles exclaimed incredulously. ‘When you hear its sound, the legend says the world is made right again. That what you’re missing inside will be found. Everybody’s looking for joy, and the way the mayor’s cryin’, I’m sure he’d appreciate it.’

  “I looked back at the girl, thinking that this could actually be something that would help her. Something that could set her mind straight. Despite my better judgment, I felt a plan coming together. As they say, two birds, one stone.

  “‘I’m in,’ she said, sipping from her drink again, looking back at me. My art reached out as our eyes met. Art is a kind of special gift given to the denizens of this city, whether it’s music, painting, or dance. You know, the obvious kind. But there were other arts, the kind that stuck to a person like a sixth sense.