"Still want to do this?" Principal Harrison asked.
Jack's answer was immediate and unadorned. "Absolutely."
Ms. Blake gestured toward the bench. Jack set his navy backpack carefully against one of the piano's carved legs, slid onto the seat, and rested his hands just above the keys without touching them. For a breath, the whole lobby seemed to lean forward. Principal Harrison folded his arms. Ms. Blake waited with the patience of someone who had heard a thousand openings and still believed the next one might matter.
Jack's fingers hovered.
Outside, a gust of wind threw snow against the glass like distant applause.
Then Ms. Blake's phone vibrated in her palm—a message from the audition chamber saying the previous candidate had finished early—and she touched Jack's shoulder gently. "They're ready for you inside," she said. "Warm-up will have to wait."
Jack rose without complaint. He did not press a single key. The lobby grand remained silent, black and glossy and unused, as if it had been only a question the afternoon had asked and then withdrawn. Principal Harrison watched them go toward the double doors that led to the audition wing, the cream card still in his hand, and felt, without knowing why, that he had just interrupted something he did not yet understand.
The audition corridor smelled different from the lobby—less lemon oil, more nervousness. Jack walked beside Ms. Blake with the quiet concentration of a boy who had rehearsed not only music but the act of walking toward it. His freckles stood out more under the fluorescent lights. The navy backpack bumped softly against his spine with each step.