He walked the service corridor before the dinner began. The lemon smell was gone, replaced by something more expensive and less honest, a citrus designed in a lab to suggest cleanliness without the history of hands. Still, the swinging doors remembered. He pushed one open and stood where his mother used to stand with trays, looking out at the sea of tables being set with military tenderness.
A young catering employee nearly collided with him, apologizing in a rush. She had dark hair in a neat bun and eyes that flicked nervously toward the ballroom as if measuring the distance between her world and that one. Her name tag said Priya.
"It's all right," Noah said. "I used to get lost back here too."
She blinked. "You're the pianist."
"Tonight I am," he said. "Is there a kid hanging around who shouldn't be?"
She hesitated, then smiled despite herself. "My little brother. He sneaks looks at the piano whenever I'm on shift. I keep telling him—"