Harrison looked older in the evening light, or perhaps simply less armored. "I overheard a student call you 'the lobby story' earlier this year. I disliked it. Not because stories are bad, but because you are not an anecdote in my building. You are a student. I should have made that clearer from the first day."
Jack shifted his backpack. "The practice room changes helped," he said carefully. "And the bus thing. My grandmother noticed."
Harrison's mouth moved through something like a smile. "Good. Those were for more than you. But I won't pretend you weren't the reason I finally stopped delaying them."
Jack considered this. Honesty from adults was rarer than praise and more useful. "Thank you for not stopping me that day," he said. "Even though you kind of tried."
Harrison laughed under his breath. "I did kind of try. I'm glad you had a cream card and Ms. Blake."
"I'm glad you apologized," Jack said. Then, because he was eleven and still learning the borders of boldness: "And I'm glad you listened later. Listening later still counts."
Harrison looked at him for a long moment. "Yes," he said. "It does."
Behind them, the lobby grand stood under the wreath's shadow, lid closed, waiting for whoever next mistook it for furniture or destiny. Jack glanced at it and felt no unfinished hunger this time—only a settled recognition that some instruments teach you before you touch them, simply by being the place where a question was asked.