The saxophone in the photograph moved . Its keys depressed as if an invisible man were playing it. And from his studio monitors came a sound that stopped his heart.

When he loaded the VST into his DAO, a new window appeared. It wasn't the usual sterile, knob-filled interface. It was a photograph of a dimly lit jazz club. In the center, a single, phantom-silver Mark VI saxophone floated against a velvet curtain. There was no “play” button. There was only a microphone icon with the label: “Hum a phrase.”

The breath had gravel. The attack had the soft, wooden thunk of a reed on a mouthpiece. The vibrato was slightly out of tune, human, aching. Leo played a C# and the note bloomed with a microtonal wobble—the exact fingerprint of his father’s old, leaky horn.