Brass and strings.

As the glass elevator rose, the sound of strings filled the space—the vibration of chords resonating through wood.

The building was almost entirely glass, broken up by metal railings and columns. Most of it was offices, with a large balcony-like opening in the center that looked down onto the lower floors.

He wasn’t sure why they were there or what the building was for, only that he would have to translate.

By the time they reached the counter, the guitar music had stopped. No one was speaking anymore. Instead, a brass saxophone flowed from the woman behind the desk.

They lined up and waited. While they stood there, his dad explained why they had come, but it still didn’t make sense to him. His only plan was simple: turn strings into brass, and brass into strings. Nothing else.

When their turn came, the warm, friendly saxophone notes made him sweat a little. The woman addressed his dad first, but his dad glanced down at him, nervous, asking silently for help.

Quickly, he translated—pulling together a few notes on strings to answer. The woman replied calmly, this time directing her saxophone toward him. He looked back at his dad, who now seemed even more lost, and repeated the brass notes on strings so his dad could understand.

This went on for a while. He didn’t fully understand what most of the notes meant, but he understood enough to translate them. Somehow, once they became strings, his dad understood them immediately.

At one point, the questions became simpler. With the little brass he knew, the exchange turned into a smooth back-and-forth between him and the woman. He was surprised at how much he was understanding—and how easily he could reply.

His dad placed a hand on his shoulder and, using one of the few brass notes he knew, gently paused the conversation so he could follow along.

Realizing he’d drifted from his role, he stopped the saxophone notes, slightly embarrassed, and translated everything back into strings: names, addresses, phone numbers. He reassured his dad that if anything important came up, he would check before answering.

The woman began typing, and the saxophone fell silent—though music still drifted around them from everywhere else.

When she finished, she handed him an envelope, which he passed to his dad. They walked back down the hallway toward the glass elevator. He pressed the call button, and his dad playfully tried to repeat saxophone notes using strings.

He corrected him, playing the proper notes so his dad could hear and try again—but the attempt went back and forth so many times, without success, that even he forgot what the right note was supposed to sound like.

They laughed, gave up, and returned to strings as the elevator doors closed.