Sunday morning. The dorm room was filled with a gentle hum of anticipation. Bishop, with his fiery orange-to-gold headstock, leaned slightly out of the open window, his expressive brown eyes closed in a serene moment of focus. The spire of a distant church stood silent against the soft morning light, like an audience of one. The room was quiet, the usual cadet chatter gone, allowing a conversation of wood and strings to unfold. With a slight tilt upward, Bishop sent his deepest, most resonant note toward the spire, the way a singer calls out to a great bell. He waited. In a carillon, the bourdon is the heaviest bell and the deepest voice - slow to speak, impossible to ignore. Bishop hummed his lowest note again, patient as stone, listening for an answer only he could hear. Then, the stillness broke. Bishop felt a tremor through his strings and opened his eyes. Somewhere beyond the rooftops, the morning had replied. His patience was rewarded with the tantalizing hint of melodies to come, a line quietly but boldly crossed.