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The folder opened. There was only one file inside: 01_Lodi_Intro.mp3 . He pressed play.

He never searched for a bootleg again. Some performances are meant to stay in the past.

As the progress bar crawled across the screen, he dimmed the lights. He poured a glass of wine and put on his best headphones. He wanted no distractions. He wanted to hear the cough of the Italian audience, the creak of the wooden bench, and the moment the hammer struck the wire.

Suddenly, a single, thunderous chord erupted. It was so loud Elias jumped, nearly knocking over his wine. But the sound didn't stop. It sustained, vibrating with an unnatural resonance that seemed to hum in his very bones. The recording wasn't just audio; it felt like a physical presence in the room.

Silence. Then, a low, rhythmic thumping. It wasn’t a piano. It was the sound of footsteps on a hollow stage. A man’s voice—deep, gravelly, and unmistakably Richter’s—spoke in Russian.