"Remember the first day?" she asked.
"Every minute," Ethan said.
"You told them not to stop you once you started," Sophia Elise Lang said. "So don't stop yourself either."
He nodded. When her group was called, she squeezed his shoulder and went. He listened through the wall as Haydn bloomed and the handoff he had helped fix landed clean. Applause followed like rain on a roof. Then Helena appeared, black teaching clothes traded for concert black that still looked like authority, glasses reflecting stage light.
"You're next after the announcement," she said. "Breathe from the place you breathe when you mean it."
Richard stood at the edge of the wing, not in the way, exactly as promised, his face carefully arranged into support. When Ethan's name was called—Ethan James Mercer, violin—Richard mouthed something that might have been good luck or I'm here or your mother. Ethan could not read lips well enough to know. He walked out anyway.
The hall was larger than Studio B by a factor that made his stomach pitch, then settle. Lights warmed his cheeks. He opened the scratched case on a side table, lifted the old violin, and felt the room's attention gather into a single listening animal. Somewhere in the dark seats, Richard sat. Somewhere Claire did not. Somewhere Sophia watched with her bow hand closed in her lap as if holding a promise.