It was late November when I arrived in Chengdu, a city whose greyness reminded me more of an overcast London afternoon than anything I had imagined of China. The air hung heavy, swollen with an autumn mist that blurred the edges of the streets, the buildings, even the people hurrying along the wide boulevards. I had chosen Chengdu precisely because it seemed a place where one could vanish without drawing attention, where I could settle into the unremarkable anonymity that I now found comforting.

For years, I had entertained thoughts of retreat, of leaving behind the half-formed existence I’d led as a part-time piano teacher in Kent, dabbling in baroque pieces with a mediocrity that had begun to gnaw at me. But it wasn’t just the music. The life I had built—such as it was—had grown stifling, like a book left unopened on a shelf, collecting dust. It was with these thoughts that I first considered China, not for its allure or exoticism, but because it was far away enough that I could be forgotten, or perhaps remembered differently.

My accommodations had been arranged in advance—a modest apartment in a district known more for its teahouses and faded lanterns than anything modern. The small upright piano that had been waiting in the corner of the living room was what drew my attention immediately. Its keys were worn, some even slightly chipped, but it had a peculiar warmth to its tone, as if it had once been loved. I sat down, my fingers hesitating on the keys, playing the first few bars of a Scarlatti sonata. The sound reverberated through the stillness, filling the room with a quiet familiarity.

This, I thought, would be my life for the next several months. A life of isolation, of practicing through the early mornings and late evenings, with nothing but Bach, Scarlatti, and Handel to fill the silence. I would rebuild myself note by note, measure by measure, until the person I had been—the one who played in small concert halls back home, fumbling through pieces—could no longer be recognized.