Perfect Pitch: Refers to a person's ability to identify a musical note correctly upon hearing it. For example, if someone were to play the note C sharp (C#) on the piano, a person with perfect pitch would be able to name the note without having seen which key was struck. A commonly cited number is that approximately one in ten thousand, or .01% of people, are thought to have perfect pitch. Due to its rarity, some consider it a gift.

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"I think that's a B," Jazz muttered to himself, pressing the note on his mobile piano app to confirm. "Ugh, it's a Bb," he groaned.

 Jazz, a young musician, had a unique morning routine. As he waited for his next delivery request in his part-time job as a parcel bike courier, he would stand on the bustling street corner, listening intently to the cacophony of sounds. This daily habit was his unconventional method to develop perfect pitch. He'd listen, guess the note, and then check it against his app.

 "My bag!" a frantic yell echoed from the other side of the busy street, cutting through the morning air. Jazz's head snapped up, and he saw a young boy speeding away on a bike, clutching the stolen bag. 

 Without a second thought, Jazz sprang into action. He leaped onto his bike, reacting on pure instinct. His eyes followed the thief as he darted through the cars, his heart racing. It was a risky move to cross the road, but he had no time to waste.

 He pushed off, maneuvering into the oncoming lane. A car barreled past, honking loudly as it swerved just inches from him.

 Knowing the town like the back of his hand, Jazz spotted a narrow side street that would give him the advantage. With a quick flick of his handlebars, he veered left, leaving the main road behind.

 The alley was barely wide enough for his bike, but he was undeterred by the challenge. As he entered, he noticed an incline to his right leading up to a small park. Using the slope to his advantage, he accelerated and leapt off the incline, the bike soaring over a low fence that separated the alley from the park. He landed smoothly, his tires gripping the ground as he continued his pursuit.

 The path narrowed further, and Jazz skillfully navigated around a group of pedestrians. He ducked beneath an outstretched arm, swerved to avoid a trash can, and zipped past a dog tied to a post, the owner unaware of the chase unfolding beside them.

 Just ahead, a delivery truck was parked at an awkward angle, partially blocking the way. Jazz didn't hesitate; he executed a sharp turn, skimming the truck's edge, feeling the rush of wind as he narrowly avoided the side mirror.

 As he emerged from the shortcut, Jazz finally spotted the boy ahead. "Hey! Stop!" Jazz shouted, his voice cutting through the noise. Jazz saw the boy's resolve falter. In a desperate move, the thief hurled the stolen bag into a nearby bush, hoping to rid himself of the evidence.

 He skidded to a stop, watching as the boy pedaled away. Instead of giving chase, Jazz quickly hopped off his bike and sprinted to the bush. Bending down, he retrieved the bag from the underbrush. As he pulled it free, he noticed its sleek design and luxurious materials—it looked very expensive.

 He hopped back on his bike and pedaled furiously, determined to return the bag, retracing his route to the spot where the bag had been stolen. His heart raced with a mix of urgency and concern. But as he arrived, his pulse quickened for another reason—the woman was no longer there. Jazz glanced around at the people nearby, vividly recalling the vibrant blue dress she had been wearing. His heart sank as he realized she was nowhere to be found.

 Determined to find a way to return the bag, Jazz unzipped it and rummaged through its contents. He found a wallet nestled among some papers and pulled it out, flipping it open. Inside, an ID caught his eye. He scanned the card and read the name: "Lilly Rosco." The last name rang a bell, instantly familiar. Marvin Rosco, one of the well-known musicians in their town, came to mind. Jazz's heart raced at the thought—could this be a relative of the famous artist? He looked for a mobile number printed on the ID and quickly dialed it, but the line was busy. He then checked the address. It wasn't far from where he was; a surge of hope ignited within him. Without wasting another moment, he hopped back on his bike and took off toward the address.

* * *

Jazz came to a stop in front of a tall black gate. He glanced up at the number affixed to the gate, his heart pounding with anticipation. It matched the address on the ID perfectly—he was sure this was the right house. Taking a deep breath, he felt a mix of excitement and nervousness, knowing it could be the home of Marvin Rosco.

 Jazz pressed the doorbell twice. Moments later, the gate creaked open, and he quickly recognized the woman—she was still wearing the same vibrant blue dress that had caught his attention earlier.

 "Ma'am, I think this bag belongs to you," he said, holding it out to her.

 Her eyes widened in surprise, relief washing over her face as she stepped closer. "Oh my goodness! Yes, that's my bag! Thank you so much for returning it!" Her voice trembled with gratitude. "I thought I'd lost it for good. You have no idea how much this means to me!"

 "You're welcome, ma'am," Jazz replied, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

 The woman paused for a moment, her gaze softening. "You should come inside and have a cold drink."

 Jazz shook his head, trying to brush off the invitation. "No need, ma'am. I'm fine."

 She glanced at him more closely, noticing the sweat-soaked fabric clinging to his shirt. "You look really tired. I insist," she said, her tone firm yet warm.

 As they walked towards the house, Jazz heard a muffled sound. "Scales!" he thought to himself. "Violins?"

 When the woman opened the door, the sound of the violin poured out, rapid notes like bullets hitting Jazz. He was instantly engulfed by the intricate cascade of scales and arpeggios, an absolute musical brilliance. As he stepped inside, his eyes were immediately drawn to a young woman, about his age, her long hair cascading down her back with striking purple highlights. Her fair skin seemed to glow in the soft light of the living room, and her almond-shaped eyes, with a hint of mystery, were focused intently on the music sheet as she played with such grace.

 The young lady suddenly stopped playing, her eyes narrowing with curiosity as she noticed an unfamiliar face entering. It was only then that Jazz spotted the grand piano in front of her and, seated behind it, Mr. Marvin Rosco.

 "Marvs, honey, look! My bag is back!" the woman exclaimed. Then, turning her attention to Jazz, she added, "Goodness! How rude of me! I haven't even asked for your name." She laughed softly, extending her hand for a shake. "I'm Lilly, by the way."

 "My name is Jazz, Ma'am Lilly," Jazz replied politely as they shook hands.

 "Wow, that's a nice name," Marvin Rosco interjected. He stood up from the piano and approached Jazz. "Thank you, Jazz."

 He then glanced at the young lady, adding, "We can take a ten-minute break, Lyra."

 She nodded to her father and placed her bow and violin on the sofa. "Just call me when we're resuming, Dad. I'll be in my room." As she walked away, Jazz noticed that she was tiptoeing gently.

 Marvin Rosco turned back to Jazz, a curious smile playing on his lips. "Are your parents musicians? With a name like yours, I wouldn't be surprised."

 "No, but they are music lovers," Jazz replied.

 Marvin nodded thoughtfully. "How about you? Do you play anything?"

 Jazz hesitated for a moment before answering, "Yes, I play the piano, Sir."

 Mrs. Rosco smiled warmly at them. "You two should have a seat. I'll get something for you to drink, Jazz."

 They settled onto the sofa, and Marvin Rosco looked at Jazz with interest. "So, do you have a band? Do you perform anywhere?"

 "Yes, I have a band, sir, and we're playing at the Pines Hotel," Jazz replied.

 "Oh, the newly renovated one!" Marvin exclaimed. "Don't tell me it's a jazz band!" he added with a laugh.

 "Yes, Jazz in a jazz band!" Jazz replied, chuckling. "And you won't believe the name of our band, Sir."

 Marvin burst out laughing, anticipating the punchline.

 "Oh goodness! Please tell me I'm not right. Is it Jazz Once?" he asked, referring to the famous love song Just Once.

  Jazz laughed and nodded his head. "We haven't thought of a name for the band, Sir. During the audition, we were asked for the band name, and our singer-guitarist, Ed, silly as he is, randomly came up with that one."

 Mrs. Rosco returned with a glass of pineapple juice, a bright smile on her face. "Here you go, Jazz. Is pineapple juice okay?" she asked, extending the glass toward him.

 "Pineapple juice is great, Ma'am, thank you very much!" Jazz replied.

 Mrs. Rosco smiled at Jazz and took a seat beside them.

 "Sir, I've heard you have perfect pitch," Jazz said. "What's it like to have that ability? I've always wanted to achieve it myself. I've tried training, but it never seems to click for me. It must be incredibly helpful as a musician."

 "Having perfect pitch has been invaluable for me," Marvin replied. "It helps me identify notes and chords effortlessly, which is a huge advantage in improvisation and composition. But..." He paused, the light in his eyes dimming slightly as he continued, "I've noticed that my perfect pitch isn't as reliable as it used to be; now it feels like I'm often a half step off. I think it changes with age, though I'm not entirely sure if it's the same for everyone."

 Jazz's eyes widened in disbelief, his expression a mix of shock and curiosity. "You mean your perfect pitch is off by a half step now, Sir?" he exclaimed, struggling to process Marvin's revelation. Just then, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket, breaking the moment. He pulled it out and checked the notification. "Oh, I'm very sorry, Sir Marvin, Ma'am Lilly. It looks like I have a delivery," Jazz said, turning back to Marvin.

 "No, we're the ones who should thank you," Mrs. Rosco said, reaching into her purse and pulling out some money.

 Jazz quickly shook his head. "No, I can't take that."

 Mrs. Rosco insisted, but Jazz remained firm. "I appreciate it, but I think an autograph from Sir Marvin would be a better choice," he replied, a bit shy. He quickly fished a pen and a piece of paper from his bag and handed them to Marvin.

 "It's my pleasure," Marvin said, signing his name and adding a small note underneath. "You can come back anytime, Jazz. I might even drop by your gig sometime," he added with a warm grin.

 "Thanks again," Jazz said as he stood up. Just then, his phone buzzed again. Checking it, he found a message from Ed: 

"Dude, come early to our gig so we can rehearse and do a proper sound check. See you!"

* * *

By afternoon, the sun dipped lower in the sky as Jazz pedaled swiftly on his bike, the rhythmic whir of the wheels matching the beat of the jazz melodies streaming through his earphones. He was on his way to his gig at the Pines Hotel, focused and energized. Dressed in a crisp, tailored navy suit that hugged his lean frame, he exuded an air of sophistication, the light fabric billowing slightly as he moved. A sleek white shirt peeked from beneath the jacket, its collar slightly open, and a stylish tie completed the ensemble, swaying gently with each turn of the pedals.

 As Jazz glided through the bustling streets, his mind was lost in the melodies dancing in his ears. He turned down a narrow alley leading to the Pines Hotel, where the warm glow of evening lights beckoned. Suddenly, a stray dog darted across his path. Reacting instinctively, Jazz swerved to avoid the creature, momentarily distracted from the rhythm of his ride.

 In that split second, his bike veered off balance, and before he could regain control, he collided with a lamp post. The impact was jarring, and he felt a sharp thud against his helmet, sending a wave of disorientation through him. In the blink of an eye, the world around him faded to black.

 When Jazz finally came to, he found himself lying on the pavement, the cool surface contrasting with the warmth of the afternoon sun. The sound of distant laughter and the barking dog filtered back into his awareness. He blinked a few times, trying to gather his thoughts, and slowly pushed himself up.

 "Ugh, what just happened?" he muttered, rubbing his head where a bump was beginning to form, cushioned by his helmet. His heart raced as he glanced around, spotting the lamp post looming over him like a sentinel.

 Just as he steadied himself, a sharp car horn blared nearby. The sound pierced the air, and strangely, it resonated within him in a way he had never experienced before. The note of the horn seemed to register in his mind, not just as noise, but as a distinct musical note.

 "B-flat?" Jazz murmured, bewildered. He blinked and shook his head, wondering if the bump had scrambled his senses. Yet, the note lingered in his mind, clear and precise, as if he had plucked it from a piano himself.

 He stood there for a moment, the strangeness of the experience washing over him. The world around him seemed to shimmer slightly, and he could almost see the vibrations of the sound as they danced through the air.

 "Did I really just... hear that?" Jazz asked himself, his voice tinged with a mix of amazement and confusion. The dog barked again, and once more, the sound rang clear and true, like a musical note, each bark registering a note.

 Gathering his scattered thoughts, Jazz brushed off his suit, climbed back onto his bike, more cautious now, but also puzzled. Another car horn sounded in the distance. This time, Jazz didn't hesitate. He quickly grabbed his mobile phone from his pocket, and opened the piano app. The note from the horn echoed in his mind.

 "An e-flat" he said to himself, pressing the corresponding key on the virtual piano. Jazz was in shock.

 "I have perfect pitch!" he shouted.