The curtain is about to rise. Wolfgang Mozart stands in the wings, watching the audience. His latest opera has divided the court. The conductor raises his baton.

The first notes sound. Mozart closes his eyes. When he opens them, he sees one face in the crowd — and the expression on it will decide his fate in Vienna.

Salieri has invited Mozart to a private gathering. The room is full of patrons and musicians. Salieri proposes a game: each will improvise at the keyboard. Mozart accepts with a smile.

Salieri plays first. The room applauds. Mozart sits down. What he plays next will either cement his reputation or destroy it.

Mozart holds a letter. His father's handwriting is sharp and angry — another lecture about money, marriage, and respect. Mozart reads it twice and sets it down.

He walks to the keyboard. He does not play his own music. He plays something his father once wrote — and the way he plays it will change how we remember both men.

A stranger in gray has commissioned a requiem. Mozart is ill and exhausted, but he cannot stop writing. The pages pile up. His wife begs him to rest.

He looks at the score. He has written the Lacrimosa up to a single bar. He picks up the quill. Whether he finishes that bar will determine how the piece is remembered forever.

Joseph II has summoned Mozart to court. The emperor found the latest opera too complex — too many notes. Mozart stands before him, waiting.

The emperor asks if Mozart will simplify the music for the next performance. Mozart's answer is polite, precise, and devastating — and the courtier who hears it will repeat it for decades.