He only grew into a man who made sure it was—
again,
and again,
for as many beginnings as a single life and a single yes could hold.
In his studio, late, with the city quiet and the score of a new commission open on the desk, Noah sometimes wrote letters he did not send. One was to Luis Ortega. One was to the busboy who had stopped his cart. One was to every guest who had put down a fork. He wrote them in his head while his hands rested, and then he played instead of mailing, because music had always been his most reliable postage.
To Harold he wrote, endlessly: Thank you for expecting them to wait.