During certain afternoon hours, a particular corridor bathed in gold hums with the faint sound of a twinkling voice hidden behind one of the numerous nondescript doors lining the walls.

The closer the ear ventures towards the room, the more it is spellbound by the brilliant charm of the unrefined beauty radiating from each note the lovely voice yields. Not every one is executed with confidence, yet the imperfect song becomes no less attractive and captivating. Each mistake or hesitation is embraced with accepting arms, and none, regardless of the severity, manage to spoil the flow of the succeeding notes, displease the listening ear, or dampen the ardent spirit of the voice.

The product is the most endearing type of music: the song that is produced by prodigious talent and passion that have yet to fully blossom to their maximum potential.

Behind that one particular door, which is masked expertly within the sea of identical twins, lies that heavenly voice adored by all who linger in this very corridor.

It sings in the comfort of a spacious room decorated solely with a single window, framed with golden silk drapes, performing in the pleasant company of only one individual.  

During these afternoon hours, the melodic voice of the grand piano stationed in the center of the capacious room floats along the golden walls of the lonely corridor, accompanied by a single soul seated upon the small bench.

The mute pianist.