The year was 1893, and Chicago hummed with the energy of the World's Fair. Margaret Holt pressed her last nickel into the palm of the trolley operator, watching the copper-nickel coin disappear into his vest pocket as the car lurched forward toward the grand exhibition halls.
She had come to hear the visiting orchestra perform that evening. The philharmonic had traveled all the way from Vienna, and Chicagoans had filled every seat in the ornate auditorium weeks in advance. Margaret had waited in line before dawn to secure her ticket, convinced that hearing seventy musicians play Brahms together would be worth every sacrifice.
As she settled into her balcony seat, she noticed the governor of Illinois taking his place in the reserved box below, surrounded by men in tall hats and women draped in silk. The elected head of the state often attended such cultural events, she had read, eager to demonstrate that Illinois was no rough frontier territory but a place of sophistication and refinement.
The conductor raised his baton.
Margaret forgot the nickel, forgot the governor, forgot even the fairgrounds blazing with electric light outside. There was only the music — sweeping and ancient and new all at once — filling the hall like water filling a vessel. When the final note dissolved into silence, she sat motionless for several seconds before joining the applause.
She walked home along the lakeshore afterward, penniless and content, the melody still moving through her like a second heartbeat.