The concert hall was almost empty when the manager walked into the rehearsal room. The young pianist was sitting at the piano, quietly practicing the same piece he had written several years ago.

The manager looked serious.

“Don’t go on stage tonight.”

The pianist stopped playing and turned around.

“Why?”

The manager placed a document on the piano.

“Someone has accused you of plagiarism. They say you stole their music.”

The pianist stared at the document for a few seconds. Surprisingly, he didn’t look scared.

“Who made the accusation?”

“It doesn’t matter,” the manager replied. “The evidence looks convincing. If we let you perform tonight, your reputation could be destroyed.”

The pianist slowly picked up the sheet music.

“Then ask them when this piece was written.”

The manager frowned.

“What do you mean?”

The pianist pointed at the date written at the bottom of the original manuscript.

“This piece was written ten years ago.”

The manager looked confused.

“So?”

The pianist smiled bitterly.

“Ten years ago, I couldn’t even play the piano.”

The room suddenly became silent.

The manager looked at the manuscript again. His face turned pale.

“If you didn’t write it… then who did?”

The pianist looked toward the empty stage.

“I was hoping you would never ask me that.”

Then his phone suddenly rang.

The screen showed one name:

“Dad.”

But his father had been dead for ten years.