The audition room must have been filled to the brim with girls, eager and bustling around with their instruments. Some were doing scales (whether be it on a piano or with their voice) and others were just sitting, waiting for fate to come and pat them on the shoulder.

When Clara had stepped into the room, she had felt a lump lodge itself firmly in her throat. She remembered the breathing exercises her teacher had taught her, and tried to keep still.

“Well, go on,” one judge prompted, holding a pen in his mouth.

Clara gulped, and pulled a stool next to her. She sat down, and put her black acoustic guitar in place. She played an intro to a song, and cleared her throat carefully.

The judges looked hesitant, not knowing what to expect (after three hundred failures, you do get a bit tired).

Her mouth opened, and immediately, the director’s face broke out into an irrepressible grin.

“I smell a winner,” he whispered to his coworkers, just as a faint whiff of sandalwood drifted through the room.