Then came the contemporary piece from the academy packet: a short modern work by a living composer that asked for colors more than virtuosity, for patience more than show. Jack had spent two weeks learning how to make dissonance sound inevitable rather than accidental. When the final chord arrived, it did not resolve so much as accept itself.
Silence followed.
Not the polite silence of completed duty. The other kind.
Mrs. Cole wrote something. Dr. Mori leaned forward. "Who taught you to listen between the notes like that?"
Jack blinked. "Mr. Delgado. And my grandmother, sometimes. She hums when she knits. I try to leave space the way she leaves space."
Dr. Mori's mouth twitched. "Unusual answer. Acceptable."
Ms. Blake's eyes shone in a way she would later deny. "Thank you, Jack. You may wait in the green room. Results will be posted this evening."
Jack stood, bowed as Mr. Delgado had taught him—neither too deep nor too shallow—and retrieved his navy backpack. At the door he glanced once toward Principal Harrison, who had remained standing just inside the threshold with his arms no longer folded.