Noah bowed. He looked at his mother. He looked at the choir of children in their mismatched shoes, bright-eyed, ready for whatever corridors their lives would hand them.
He thought: It will be.
And for the thousandth time, in the only way that ever mattered, it was.
Long after the premiere, when the hall had emptied and the children's parents had claimed coats and instrument cases, Noah remained at the piano with the house lights at half. A janitor waited politely near the doors. Noah played one more page—not from the commission, not from Bach, only the grandmother song, slowed until it became almost speech. He imagined Ruth at the sink. He imagined Elena at twenty-eight, carrying him past steam vents on Mercer Street. He imagined Harold's pencil marks. He imagined Langford's eyes closed in an empty ballroom. He imagined Camila's bus and Arjun's middle C and Priya saying don't and then learning a better sentence.
The janitor did not interrupt. When Noah finished, the man said, "My daughter plays. Not like that. But she plays."
"That's the whole idea," Noah said. "Not like that. Like herself."