On the morning the river ran backwards, no one thought to write it down. That was because everyone blamed Old Tomas. Tomas had spent forty years composing a symphony nobody wanted to hear. “It isn't finished,” he always said. “When will it be finished?” people asked. “When the river tells me.” Naturally, the town considered him mad. Then the river reversed. Tomas walked calmly to its bank carrying a pencil and manuscript paper. “Well?” asked the butcher, who had followed him. Tomas listened. Then he cursed. “What?” “It still won't tell me.” News reporters arrived by afternoon. Scientists blamed geological disturbances. Priests blamed divine intervention. The tourism board printed T-shirts. Through it all, Tomas sat beside the water, listening. Three days later, his granddaughter Sofia joined him. She studied the score. “There’s a bar missing.” “I know.” “What goes there?” “If I knew, it wouldn't be missing.” Sofia hummed the passage. Seven notes rose beautifully. Then nothing. She hummed it again. Again, silence. “Grandfather,” she said slowly. “What if that's it?” Tomas frowned. “You mean a rest?” “No. Not a rest. Nothing.” For forty years he had searched for a sound that could complete the phrase. He had never considered that completion might require silence. That evening, the orchestra performed the symphony beside the river. When they reached the empty bar, nobody played. For four seconds, the entire town heard only water moving upstream. Then the river stopped. A moment later, it flowed forwards again. Tomas laughed until he cried. The orchestra finally agreed the missing note had been there all along.